


Broken Strings

by strange_glow



Series: Virus [1]
Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 16:51:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3617175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strange_glow/pseuds/strange_glow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A challenge from a friend to pull Yohji apart one more time, with a twist. Obviously, this is an AU, and not quite in line with cannon.   </p><p>Concept:  Yohji's been broken and put together so many times, he’s not working right.<br/>But who was he in the first place?  </p><p>Time Line: Just after the Human Chess episode.  Crawford/Schuldig established.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

Yohji trudged up the stairs and wavered between the door to his room and the bathroom. 

Staying out all night every night for a week was not a good idea.  He knew this.  It interfered with missions. 

Take right now.  He was barely able to stand, let alone walk up those stairs—he wasn’t even sure how he’d managed them.  Out of habit, perhaps?  Aya was pissed again.  Oooo, what else was new?  What ever team Aya had been with before he’d gone AWOL and turned up in Weiss’ territory, they must have just adored him, the spoilt brat.  That whole samurai thing was all very entertaining in the movies, but being splattered

with people’s guts was not Kudoh Yohji’s idea of a fun night out with the girls.  He looked down at the gore dried to sticky-stage on his jacket and sighed. He wouldn’t look in the mirror. 

He turned right, into the bathroom.  First come, first serve.  He’d get in and out, so that  whoever managed to crawl up next wouldn’t complain loudly.

 

                                                                   *    *    *

 

Someone was pounding on the door.   He blinked.  Again?  He turned off the tap.  If it weren’t for the Insta-Waterheater, he’d probably have been killed by now.  But hey,

modern conveniences probably saved more roommate's lives than statistics would ever really tell. “Minute,” he said, waking up enough to realize he’d  fallen asleep sitting on the floor of the square stall, slouched against the wall. He arched onto all fours, arranging himself to rise slowly on numb legs, and got a firm grasp of the safety bar before stepping out on to the bath rug.

                “Move it, Kudoh!” Aya ordered from the other side of the door.

                “I’m trying to,” Yohji replied, finding his robe on the row of hooks where he’d learned to hang it for just such occasions.  Nothing like constantly staggering home covered in other people’s bodily fluids to encourage habits of efficiency.  He threw a towel over his damp hair, grabbed up the bundle of his fifthy clothes, and unlocked the door. 

Interesting. Aya could do the death-glare without actually aiming those obscenely

gorgeous eyes directly at someone.  It was like being brushed in the cross walk by an impatient diesel truck.  Yohji fell to one side to avoid being body slammed out of the way, then slipped out the door.  It slapped shut behind him.  The lock was reset. 

                “Oh, Kudoh-san, thank you so very much for loaning me your watch, it was very helpful.  No, no, think nothing of it, Fujimiya-san, nothing I wouldn’t do for a team mate.”  Yohji’s raised voice mocking protest was drowned out by the shower starting again. 

“Fuck you, ‘Aya’,” Yohji said, and went to his room.  He stopped himself from slamming the door as hard as he felt like.  He just wasn’t in the mood for another lecture from a chick who wore ankle socks with her high heels about the cost of replacing door frames and doors.  “There’s a guy who needs a long hard lesson in bowing and gratitude,” he muttered, grabbing his cigarettes off the dresser and putting one in his mouth.  He plucked up a plastic lighter from amid the colognes and pocket clutter, lit up, and inhaled.  He tossed the lighter down and started towel drying his hair, letting the nicotine do it's job. 

                He glanced up into the mirror and froze. 

                Something—was at the edge of his mind, for just a fleeting minute.  Something about the sight of himself and the anger and thoughts in his mind had triggered something.  He just couldn’t—grasp it.  Those guys in the white suits, Takatori’s body guards.  Something—

               He met his own eyes and realized how a stranger, a victim, must see him.  Who was that man looking out at him now, wearing that hardened look and cold eyes? 

                He pulled open the drawer and put on his spare shades and toweled his hair briskly, shoving the crazy thinking out of his mind.  

 

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

                Crawford set the hotel telephone down and stood there, contemplating what he had just confirmed.  Of course he'd known it, but the 'training' had cut his talent down to the bare minimum, for usefulness rather than burn out.  Despite the irritation he increasingly felt under the yoke, he could at least still say to himself, ‘I knew it!’ with certainty, if not conviction.

                It was him.  After all, they’d done nothing to his face.  No surgery, no attempts to conceal him.  If anything, he was longer and lankier, thinner.  His hair was lighter colored, maybe a little longer, but it was him. 

                A shiny new coin was being waved in his face.  Crawford frowned, irritated by the intrusion. “Schuldig, stop it,” he snapped rearing back, afraid to have his glasses scratched.

                “I’m following orders, see?” Schuldig turned the coin sideways.  “500 yen for your thoughts.  Like normal people, (he put a mocking inflection on the words that only a German speaking English could effect properly) I’m offering to pay for your thoughts.  Isn’t that cute?” He wrinkled his nose and grinned.

                Like a tiger playing with a squeaky catnip ball, Crawford retorted, unheard, in his own mind.  And just as unbelievable. 

                “Oh, mr-frowny-wowny man is cranky-wanky,” Schuldig gave Crawford's cheek an impudent little pinch and moved closer, body heat invading Crawford’s space; scents of hair, skin, cologne filling his nostrils, tiffany blue eyes filling his view.  “We won.  What’s the problem, mein fuehrer?” the faint breeze of his breath almost brushed Crawford’s lips as he fingered the knot on Crawford's tie. 

                “Don’t call me that,” Crawford said, irritated.

                Schuldig had that insane look again, the one that said Tiger was done with the cat nip ball, hopped up and looking for a scratching post.  Crawford debated the two possibilities presenting to him at the moment, the very short moment on a short leash his masters had chained him to. Five seconds.  Five fucking seconds.  Didn’t they have any concept of how impatient he was becoming? 

                Three seconds.  Smack the Tiger on the nose and order him back to his platform with a chair for emphasis on his authority right now—or—

                Say the hell with the rules and re-establish his authority in a more feral way.

                One more second—and the moment would be lost either way.

                Decisions, decisions.

                Schuldig leaned in a millimeter more, pupils wide with interest in what he was seeing. 

                Self-control be damned.

Crawford grabbed him and mauled him with a kiss, feeling the lean body stiffen in his arms with pleasure, hands grasping the upper sleeves of his jacket and the shirt sleeves under it. 

                As his hands found buttons, wrestled with fabric, and finally, dove into the back of  waist bands to clasp warm, rounded flesh, triggering so very many responses in his

own, his mind turned traitor and flashed him a memory of a different body, a different smell, a different pattern of breathing in his ear.  No, he ordered himself, and pulled a hand

free again to catch the red head’s cheek and hold him off a little to look into those eyes again.  No past.  This was now.  And now was very, very good.

                Schuldig smiled and slithered his arms around Crawford’s neck, moving backwards, leading him in a two-step toward their bedroom door in the suite. 

                Where the hell had his glasses gone?  He leaned back and grabbed them off the small desk just before Schuldig pulled him out of reach. 


	2. Two

One of the many lower level office flunkies seeded through Tokyo by Esset had run the face recognition on video from the human chess game’s security cameras.  The flower-boy’s face matched with 98% accuracy for agent-presumed-destroyed-in-action Sarazawa Yuuji.  A comparatively low level talent, but of the sort Esset liked.  While he didn’t match the Aryan ideal, (well, neither had Hitler!) he had everything else they wanted.  Courtesy of the fall out from that second bomb, Sarazawa’s grandparents had bequeathed him a better everything.

 Except, Brad reflected, taste in clothing.  Why was it all the really good talents were missing that one essential thing.   Sarazawa and his snakeskin fetish, Schuldig in his—

                “Brad,  you are hating again.  Why are you hating?  Isn’t it gorgeous?” Schuldig turned, arms up to display his vintage 60s floral shirt (note to self: burn down that shop) and bell bottom jeans with random embroidery on them  (further note: kill that sales clerk.  Painfully).  “Look at my toes!” he bent in half to pull up the voluminous denim, exposing fringed moccasin boots.  “They are so comfy!” he fell backwards on the bed, raising his feet and wiggling his toes in the moc-boots.  “How can you hate anything so comfy and cute?” 

                “What is the point of this—costume?” Brad tightened his favorite blue tie, immediately realizing he had choked himself.   He held his breath and carefully loosened it, not giving anything away. 

                “What else?  Clubbing.” Schuldig curled up on the bed on his side, head propped up on his hand and elbow, to look at Crawford.  “And where are you going?  An accountant’s convention?”

                “In case you hadn’t noticed the very clearly posted schedule, Takatori wants us to accompany him to see to the arrangements for the election dinner party.  You are not going like that.” Teeth clenching again.  The dentist was going to be after him again. 

                “No, I’m not.” Schuldig agreed.  “Take Mini-you with you.”  He examined the ends of his hair.  “I’m thinking purple…”

                “You are not dying your hair an outrageous color again!” Brad strode over to grab him by the wrist to yank him off the bed and shake him.  “Stop it, I mean it!  Every time you get ten miles from that hell hole, you think you can just do what ever you please, while I get the bucket of shit dumped over my head!”

                Schuldig’s eyes were wide with shock and not a small amount of fear.  “Brad…”

                “Leave yourself alone!” Brad ordered in his face.  “And stop trying to get lobotomized!”

                Schuldig took a deep breath, meeting his eyes, and speaking as calmly as he could.  “I just wanted to go out.  That’s all.  Could you let go now?  Please? It’s hurting.”

                Brad let go, suddenly very aware of the damage he was about to do. 

                Schuldig lowered his arm and rubbed the circulation back into the throbbing skin and muscles.  “Would you consider taking Naoe with you?” he said just as quietly. 

                “No,” Brad stated.  “I want him out of that man’s sight as much as possible.  He stays here, where he belongs, monitoring the computers and communications.”

                Schuldig opened his mouth.

                Brad grabbed him by the chin, his thumb closing the gap in Schuldig’s lips.  “Don’t even think about mentioning Berserker for this.”

                Schuldig looked at him. 

                Brad removed his thumb from Schuldig’s mouth.  Then he let go of his chin.  He exhaled sharply and reached, shaking a bit, to stroke the coppery red mop.  “I like your natural color.  There’s nothing wrong with it,” he said softly.  “Put your new clothes away for now, and put your suit on.  You look cute in that, too, you know?”  He pulled the tie dyed bandana off the red head’s crown, and pulled at the knot in it.  “We'll go out Thursday night.  We have nothing that evening; I’ll make sure that it stays that way.”

                “Promise?” Schuldig said.

                Brad took his hand and put the folded bandana in it.  “I promise.” 

                Schuldig smiled a little, blushing for some reason.  “I look cute in that stupid white suit?” 

                “Just get dressed,” Brad said, not willing to start another round of ‘unauthorized fraternization’.  “You’ve got twenty minutes.  Fully dressed, and no funny stuff.”

                Schuldig rolled his eyes and sighed, sitting down to undo the laces on the boots. 

                Brad viciously ignored the vision he got of Schuldig bending over to remove the ridiculous hip hugging denims and walked out of the room before it actually happened. 

                He went to the small kitchen and got a glass of ice water, momentary wondering if it wouldn’t be a good idea to just give in and dump it down the front of his pants.  He had a good long swallow of the chilling liquid and pulled himself together as best as he could. 

                Sarazawa Yuuji. 

                 Well, there was a shock. 

He remembered getting the news third hand, a month after it had happened. The report was in a stack with a bunch of others, tossed into his 'In' box for review and filing, just like any other mission report on any other day.  Agent blown up, remains beyond retrieval.  A mishap with the explosives and a group Sarazawa had been mentoring to terrorize an embassy in some bloody Islamic country.  For the first time in his life, Brad’s knees had gone out on him, like the tide dragging him down. 

Yuuji dead? 

God, at the time, he’d still had that  last message on his voice mail. 

“Why do you never answer your damned phone?  I’ve got that thing in Tokyo to finish up next week.  I’m heading out on Saturday.  I’ll see you in Baden in a few weeks.  We’ll hit that club you liked.  Look, I’ve got to go, I can’t play phone tag.  Hey—you know. “  

Even now, Crawford wasn’t sure why he hadn’t just swallowed that bottle of pills that night.  Here he was, still living, still breathing, still capable of somehow connecting with another human being after all.

And so was Yuuji.  

How had Esset missed that one?  Okay, so it was an excessive amount of C4, amateur stuff, but still—wouldn’t something have turned up?  A bone fragment driven into a tree?  Or a splatter of something in a crack of rubble somewhere?  After all, they found—stuff— scattered on roof tops for a mile radius after the World Trade Center attack. 

He set the glass down on the counter and took off his glasses, setting them down next to it. Shoving up his sleeves, he turned on the tap and adjusted the water to lukewarm, and bent to rinse his face.  He had to pull himself back together, to stop thinking about the past.  There had been no recognition what so ever in that man’s eyes.  Until he’d had time to think about it, and then confirm it, he’d been ready to, hoping to put it down as just a strong resemblance.  Some subconscious thing brought on by being in Japan.   

God damn, it hurt.

Stupid, stupid, stupid moron! 

“Brad?” Schuldig had come out.  “Did you want to go right away, or do we have time for some food?” 

Brad wiped the back of his arm across his face and swallowed.  He pulled a couple of paper towels off the roller and dried himself, tossed them in the bin and picked up his glasses.  “I could use a decent meal.”  He cleared his throat, realizing how rough he sounded.  “We’ve got time.”  He put his glasses back on and turned to look at the German. 

Well, the lilac oxford barely passed.  Other wise, even with the yellow head band, Schuldig looked more like what he was supposed to be.  A tough as nails body guard, supposedly with a background of mercenary action in South Africa.  As long as he remembered to keep his soft, slender hands in his pockets and rudely refuse to shake at introductions, no one would question the background made up for him.  It didn’t hurt that he could set up a controlling aura that enforced it.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Schuldig was contrite, reading him wrong. 

Brad let it slide, smiling a little.  What was the point of telling him that wasn’t it at all.  

 

                                                                       *     *    *

 

Yohji’d woke himself up yelling again, fighting with the sheets. 

It was three in the morning, a week after the mission most memorable for the fight to keep a rabid Aya from throwing himself off a 25 story roof after a damned helicopter when the sword he had thrown missed. 

                He turned on the light and sat up, automatically reaching for his cigarettes and lighting one.  He turned the light back out and looked out the curtain less window at the city.  He scratched a vague itch on his left arm and listened to the sound of the paper burning as he inhaled.  Two cigarettes later, he was into the booze, thinking in circles about what ever the hell it was that had triggered the nightmare again.  Asuka, her death, the way it played like a movie over and over in his head when ever he was deeply troubled about the state of his life.  Did he blame himself?  Or her? 

                Did he blame himself for her death, because her death killed him? 

                Now there was one for the nut doctors. 

                He pulled his hair back with one hand and set the empty glass on the table, laying back to let his legs dangle off the side of the bed.  Round and round the mess in his head went.  If Asuka hadn’t been killed, he wouldn’t be here.  Where would he be?  Where had they been?  Who killed Asuka?  Why wasn’t he out there hunting down who had killed her?  Was that why she haunted him?  Because he hadn’t avenged her?  Because he’d been in some sort of amnesiatic coma for so long he had woken up to a stone cold trail? 

                Stone cold. 

                In random association, his memory threw a vivid scene at him.  Who the hell was that tall guy in the suit?  He’d side stepped every blow, every trick, and smacked Aya down like a playing card. 

                Now that had been funny.

                He chided himself.  Kudoh, who’s side are you on? 

                Where had Takatori found those creeps?  And why hire foreigners? 

                Something to ask Omi to get onto after school tomorrow. 

                But until Krikiter gave the order, Takatori himself was off the menu.  They were to stand back and wait, see where things went.  Not skewer him like yakitori the way Aya wanted to. 

It was weird, but normally (since when was a repetitive nightmare normal?) when he had that damned nightmare, he woke up crying himself sick.  But since the evening of the Human Chess assignment, the nightmares had led him back to the same question.  What had he seen in the mirror that night?  Some sort of out of body experience?  And why was he feeling so out of place lately? 

Every time he tried to slip back into normal mode, pretend he wasn’t an assassin in the day light, just a guy who worked in a flower shop, it felt like he was skipping a gear. Joking with the guys felt so fake.  Flirting with the girls who came into the shop—seducing the ones in the clubs—it was Kudoh on automatic.  This is me, being normal.  See, nothing out of place here.  Kudoh Yohji, on the job, one hundred percent.  Now the disconnect was twice as bad, because even on a mission, he felt like he was just going through a set pattern, holding back something.

He got another cigarette and lit, blowing smoke rings in the ambient light. 

Okay so what was really bugging him? 

Who was the guy in the suit?                                                

Why did he seem so familiar? 

He sat up, smashing out the cigarette, his mind suddenly racing, searching every memory, every detail he could remember of that dream.  Someone was shooting at them, but who?  He was chasing her—trying to stop her from getting out of his sight—and then she was gunned down.  But in the dream, he’d never seen who had shot her.

Was that the face of the man who had killed Asuka?

                He pounded the palms of his hands on his head, trying to make himself think in frustration. 

                Screw Kritiker’s orders.  The next time he saw—he was going to—

                What? 

                What was that? 

                Something had clicked, he’d almost made a connection, like having a name on the tip of the toungue and not being able to dredge up the sounds to make to say it…. 

                A pain shot through the base of his skull like the end of the world, and nausea bent him over.  He grabbed the trash can and threw up the booze and what was left in his stomach of supper.  It felt like the room was shaking around him, and he wondered if it earth quake and he was having a really bad reaction to it, but the pain in his head was shutting him down and he fell over on his side on the bed, hearing the trash can thunk to the floor.  The last thing he felt was the surreal sensation of the whole room shutting down on him like a lid on a box. 


	3. Three

“Yohji-kun!”

                The shaking started again.  He opened his eyes. 

                Omi.

                Omi had come to wake him up. 

                “What?” he said.

                “Drink this,” a cup half full of water was pressed to his lips. 

                He had a swallow, then sat up and drank the rest without help.  “Fuck,” he said.

                “I’m throwing this trash can away,” Omi said, stuffing it in a plastic trash bag and tying a knot.  “We might as well start buying them in bulk or something.”

                Yohji thought about apologizing, then something else occurred to him.  ‘Who the hell asked you to clean up after me?’

                He frowned and got up, heading for the bathroom. 

                He took one capsule over the maximum daily dose for the raging head ache and washed it down with tap water. 

                What the hell was wrong with him? 

                He headed back to his room and was glad to find the kid gone.  He shut the door and flicked the lock on it.  Okay, so it was late morning.  He pulled off the stale smelling t-shirt he was wearing and threw it in the hamper; then found some clothes and grabbed his bathroom kit and went back to get washed and shaved. 

                By the time he got down to the shop, they had a few customers browsing the loose flowers for their own bouquets, but that was it. 

                Aya glared at him.  “Omi said you drank yourself sick last night again.”

                Yohji thought it about this.  No, he had had two double shot glasses of scotch and the other half of the bottle was still right there on the bed side table where he had left it.  Two double shots did not do a man in.  “It wasn’t the scotch,” he said, tying his hair back with a rubber band.  “I don’t feel right, Aya, I haven’t for over a week now.  I think I  need a doctor.”

                Aya actually looked at him without the death beam turned on.  He looked a bit surprised, too. 

                “Feels like a damned brain tumor,” he got the hose out of the closet and was going to go out and hook it up. 

                “Maybe you should quit smoking so much,” Aya offered, sounding almost human.

                “Maybe I need to see a doctor,” Yohji enunciated for him.  “You’re standing next to the phone, call that—call Manx and ask if they’ve got someone I can see.”

                And maybe he didn’t feel like lighting up a cigarette so much either.  He felt more like throwing up again, but since there was no more ballast left to toss over board, his stomach would just have to live with it.

                He squeezed the handle on the spray attachment and watered the plants set out to sun first, then dragged the hose in to do the inside potted plants and mist the cut flowers.

                Aya set the phone down and tore a note off the order pad.  “Here,” he held it out to Yohji.

                Yohji reached over and took it, looking at it. 

                Aya was frowning, nothing much new there.  “Yohji,” he said, then hesitated. 

                Yohji looked at him, not up for any of his bullshit.  The guy could smile, Yohji had managed to tease him into it a few times, it wasn’t like the muscles were atrophied or the nerves damaged or anything.  Irritating little prick was just a certified cold fish.

                “Yohji, that doctor—,” Aya started again, then stopped.

                “Spit it out, Fujimiya,” Yohji said, using his last name to let him know he wasn’t in the buddy buddy mood, not with someone who two thirds of the time treated him like dog poop on the bottom of his boots. 

                “That doctor—why would Manx send you to him?”

                Yohji looked at the name on the paper.  Aya’s spidery kanji was clear enough.  “How do you know this is the guy?” he looked at him again.

                “Remember when we were ordered to take those prisoners to that place in the suburbs to be interrogated?  That’s the name on the plaque at that private hospital.”

                Yohji read the kanji again.   Koreshige Yasue.  “Maybe he’s the only guy they trust,” he said. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’ve got fake ID’s and along with that goes fake insurance cards.  It’s not like I can just waltz into the local clinic and lay my aching head in some nurse’s lap.”

                “You could try the bar next to the clinic,” Aya said stoically.

                Yohji’s head pounded.  But he got the point.  “Mark that on the calendar.  That’s your third joke this year.”  He stuffed the paper in his pocket and went back to watering the plants.

                “Just go,” Aya said.  “I’ll take over.”

                Yohji looked at him again.  Who was losing their mind here?  Aya offering to lift a hand for someone without it costing money?  “Okay,” he said, going to turn off the hose and hooking the sprayer on the tap pipe.   “Cheer up, if I drop dead from this, the shop saves a fortune on fertilizer, right?” 

                Aya’s mouth twitched a little, but other than that, he stood there with his arms crossed, not really up to that much emotion today, either, apparently. 

                Yohji wondered if he’d been dropped on the head one too many times as a kid or something.  Omi’d had a hell of  child hood and look how cheerful he was. 

               

*       *       * 

 

                Brad looked at the thin sheaf of paper Nagi had laid on his desk.  Did he really want to do this? 

                Nagi waited, then looked uneasy.  “So—what do we do about this?”

                Yes, what? Brad thought.  He’d already spoilt their chance of just ignoring this.  Sarazawa’s file had been pulled when his ID was verified.  Esset would have queried that by now and were probably sitting back waiting for the full report from him.  He’d have to do something, and fast, too, before they got paranoid over it. 

                Damn it.

                He pulled the file closer and opened it, looking over the pages.  “This was all of it?”

                “Kritiker doesn’t keep much on their agents except that top sheet.  If you’ll note the heading on the second page, the rest of the file is from a clinic he was treated at just over two years ago.  Not very long after the our reports said he’d been killed.” 

                Brad checked the dates.  Two months after the failed embassy bombing.  And yet, Yuuji was right where he was assigned to be, if all had gone well. Tokyo, on a job he naturally had only been able to allude to, since his section was separate from Brad’s.  A couple of weeks.  What was a couple of weeks? Two, three, four?  They made plans around orders and assignments, in the half days or few hours between planes and trains; that was understood.  Yuuji’s talents weren’t on the same level as Brad’s, they’d never be assigned to the same team.  Still, for them, it had worked well enough. 

                The invincibility factor, it was called.  We couldn’t die, because we were young.  We killed people daily and yet we couldn’t possible die, no, not us. 

                He read over the report and sat up, laying the papers on the desk and staring at them, then reading the same lines over again, until they sunk in. 

                “Weird, hunh?” Nagi prompted.  “A guy with amnesia and they brainwashed him?  Isn’t that kind of overkill?” 

                Brad looked up at him.  “Do you not have homework to do?”

                “Remember that guy who was bullying me?  I pinned him to the wall in the bathroom after class and let him know how I was going to deal with him if he did it one more time.  He’ll be doing my homework for the rest of the year.” 

                “And how is that going to improve your grade?  People who bully aren’t usually the class valedictorians.”

                “He’ll find a way,” Nagi said.

                Brad raised and eyebrow and couldn’t really find fault with this.  “I see. You’re learning to delegate tasks.  Excellent. I think.  However, I’ll be blunt.  Go away, Nagi. I need to think.”

                “Bor—ring,” Nagi said and turned to leave him to it. 

                “And stop parroting Schuldig.” He could tell he was going to have to dispose of the bully.  Nagi had to learn that some things were only worth doing if you did them yourself. 

                 There were very few things he carried with him.  His gun.  Some cufflinks and jewelry he was fond of.  Easily replaced if for some reason he couldn’t retrieve them.  The things he truly treasured were all safe in his mind.  He could just as easily run through them as paging through a photo album. 

Kritiker had made the mistake of keeping photographs on file of their agents.  Yuuji looked like people did when they were in shock.  Hair sheered thin to his skull, blank faced, rather grim,  front and side. 

                He remembered facial expressions that filled in the blank before him.  Yuuji had always had a ready smile.  Sometimes it wasn’t always a nice smile, but not that flat line of lips in the photo.  It was part of his talent that he made friends so easily, people trusted him too readily.  Even at Rosencruz, people who knew him still fell for it.  Maybe because it was genuine.   He was a ‘people person’, he used to say.  It was just his job to stab them in the back.  And behind the outward shell of impressive private school, buried behind the façade of rich students and status seeker's scions, in the real Rozencruz, he was a damned good guy to have on your side.

He just—slipped right under people’s skins. 

                Someone with a real sense of humor had assigned his code name.  Just like a virus, Sarazawa could blend in, convince the organization’s immune system he belonged there and convince anyone of anything.  He was your best buddy, your best friend, the guy you trusted with everything.  Anything he said, you’d believe, and swear on your own mother’s grave he was that trusted, no matter what he eventually did: double agent, infiltrator, assassine? No not Yuuji, never Yuuji, or what ever name he was using at the time.  FBI, IRA, Mosad agent, or moslem terrorist, Yuuji was 100%.  He’d walk in, throw down his ID, smile that smile and everyone just accepted it.  That talent and his physical ability to practically walk on air, and he was the top field agent for three years running after graduation, right up till the day he’d disappeared. 

                Brad’s mind suddenly focused in on that, something triggering his conditioning buried talent.  He’d read the report, had an emotional response to it, but what had really happened that day of the premature detonation?  Had he been blinded to something in his grief?

                Saturday.  Yuuji’d said he was heading out on Saturday to Tokyo, but what day was the bombing supposed to have been? 

                He picked up the phone and called Esset’s home office information bureau.  It took a good twenty minutes of horrible euro-muzak and being suspiciously questioned before the phone was finally picked up by someone who could find and release the file.  Brad ran through the codes blandly, assuring the guy that he was in fact who he said he was, and then told him he was about to pick his nose, because no one was looking.  That apparently was what convinced him.

                “All right, so you are Oracle.  But you’ll have to wait, we’re busy here.”

                “I’ll have to wait five minutes for you to find that damned file and all the files related to it, zip them up and put them up where I can get them, and no more, because that’s all it’s going to take.  Now give me the damned code to unlock them.”

                The jerk made a noise of exasperation and declined to say anything more than “Hold”.   In four minutes, he came back with the combination of numbers and letters and the location the files were placed on the back ass of the internet, in someone’s defunct account on a free web server.  “Have a nice day,” the guy said sarcastically and hung up on him. 

                Brad smirked.  He might have been cut back to only five seconds, but he could still bluff the hell out of the damned office drones.  After all, he’d been one for two damned years. 

                And there it was.  A big fat nothing. Everything was clean and in good order, just as he remembered it.  The report on the failed bombing due to premature detonation, the failure to find any trace of the missing agent. 

                Brad just wanted to know why and how Yuuji had ended up right where he was assigned to be next!  Why had he been able to get to Tokyo, and yet not contact anyone to let them know he was in fact, alive.

                He stared at the photograph.  Kritiker had found it necessary to brainwash him.  Why?  They certainly weren’t saying, the report was on the results, not the objective’s actual reason.  

                Where were the medical files?  There were only psychological files here. No reports on his physical condition when he had been ‘found’? 

                Why was he in Tokyo? 

                It was driving him nuts, even more so than knowing that if he wanted to, he could just get in the car and show up on his door step and—well, there was the down side.  And what?  If Yuuji had amnesia, what was the point?  Getting strangled with a piano wire?  Not fun; definitly not romantic. 

                What was he supposed to expect from all this?  'Oh, hi, you’re alive, and just to let you know, we were what I used to call vaguely infatuated and you called madly in love.  Because that’s just the way you were, you—ass hole.'

                Brad took his glasses off and pulled out his handkerchief and occupied himself with polishing them until the urge to throw a temper tantrum went away.

                He’d invested too much after all, hadn’t he?  After all that talk about it not being serious, about it being a phase left over from the stress of school, about how they’d eventually forget about it and move on.  Well, yes, if someone didn’t get blown to kingdom come, that is, and it was suddenly problem solved, now wasn’t it?  Put paid to that, didn’t it?  And then it was years of ‘I’m not gay, I just happened to fall for a classmate who’s particular talent included the ability to make anyone want to fuck him, that’s all’; insert insecure, self-conscious laugh here, right, Mr. Brad Crawford? 

                It must have been something in the water, or the lack of oxygen at that altitude in the Swiss Alps, because damned if he hadn’t fallen right back into the same stupid mess, twice as deep the second time around. 

            And if Schuldig found out about any of this, just how was he going to react? 

                He swept the papers and the file folder off his desk and slapped the laptop shut and fell back in the chair, covering his eyes with his free hand, the one with his glasses in them falling to his side. 

                What the fucking hell was he supposed to do about this!

 

                *       *      *

 

                “Hold on, wait a minute,” Yohji said.  “What has knocking me out got to do with this headache?”

                “It’s just a temporary shot, Kudoh-san,” the doctor said, firmly retrieving the yanked away arm and attempting to line up the needle again.  “You’ll be awake again in no time.  Now hold still….”

                Yohji caught the older man’s wrist and just as firmly pushed it off to one side.  “Sensei, you still haven’t explained to me why I need to be unconscious.”

                The doctor didn’t fight him, he just kept that calm soothing smile on his face.  “It’s possible that your headache is due to muscle tension or a pinched nerve.  It’s easier to examine that possibility if we relax you first. Then when you wake up, if you still have the headache or it’s abated somewhat, we’ll have eliminated the most probably physical cause and can work from there.  I fit you in on a very busy schedule you know.  You might as well be unconscious for a while instead of sitting in a waiting room.”

                Yohji considered this, then let go and settled back again. 

                Doctor Koreshige inserted the needle and pushed the plunger.  Yohji winced.  He hated shots. 

                The drug burned in his veins briefly, then he found himself falling slowly into a puff of black cotton.   Just before he hit bottom, the headache flared like an explosion behind his eyelids, brilliant and blinding him, stabbing into his optical nerves.  He flinched, but after that, he didn’t know a thing.

                 Doctor Koreshige watched Kudoh fall unconscious, then checked his pulse.  He called the nurse in to have the man removed to the isolation ward.  “This patient has a high resistance to sedatives. I want him put on a drip to maintain unconsciousness and strapped down.  We don’t want Kudoh-san trying to get up and walk around and hurting himself.”                             


	4. Four

“Virus has been off the books for two years, Oracle,” the Elder said.  It was clear he didn’t care to be bothered with something as useless as this information was to his plans.  “If your report is accurate, he’s completely compromised.  We have more important things to be dealing with.  You should know that.” 

The implications being that: A. Brad was incompetent; B. Brad was a fool. In reality, Brad was thinking murderous thoughts about old goats who should have been disemboweled at Nuremburg, not left on the shelf well past their expiration dates. 

“How is Schuldig doing?” the Elder asked. 

“Quite stable, Sir.”

 “Good, good,” the Elder said.  “If the late Agent Virus gets to be a bother, dispose of him properly.  Nothing must interfere with the ceremony.”

“Yes, Sir,” Brad said, his knuckles gone white from clutching the phone the way he wanted to clutch the old man’s scrawny neck.

“We’ll be watching you,” The old man said, and hung up.

Brad slammed the phone down.  Something in the plastic casing cracked, but it didn’t satisfyingly turn to a pile of dust the way he could have wished for.  Now he knew why Hitler really shot himself. 

So it was business as usual until he made up his own damned mind about the matter. 

The system of keeping the peasants on edge, insecure and trembling before their masters had worked for them back in the 1920’s, but people were a little more self respecting these days.  Dispose of him properly—god, what the hell were they smoking in their Meershams up there? 

                The phone rang feebly.  He snatched up the receiver again.  “What?” he snapped. 

                “Tsuchiya, Crawford-san.  We’ve been going over the plans for the museums refurbishing….”

                “I am aware of that, Tsuchiya,” Brad said, managing not to snarl. 

                “The original estimate of the strength of the concrete base of the observation platform has errors.  The samples the divers took have been pressure tested in the lab and are highly unstable.  A fraction too much silica in the mix….”

                “I’m not a construction worker, Tsuchiya, don’t bore me with the technical details, just tell me the truth.”

                “Forgive me, Crawford-san, but we need to completely replace the base somehow—or limit the weight placed on the structure….” He let it trail off, not willing to be absolutely decisive on his own, not only as a Japanese, but as an Esset employee. 

                Brad caught just a taunting glimpse of the impending disaster this implied.  Well too bad his masters had seen fit to put a tire clamp on his talent.  “Reinforce the base and strip out as much non-essential material as possible.” He ordered.  “I want a capacity report to send the home office by tomorrow.  Treat it like a temporary set of bleachers.  It’s not as if this thing is going to become a monument to the New World Order, now is it?” he smiled evilly.  Fuck them and their plans.

                “Yes, Crawford-san,” the man said.

                Crawford hung up on him.  Well there you go, treat your people like incompetents and reap the reward you so richly deserve.  It just gave him such a warm cozy feeling to know he was right in step with corporate policy.  “Schuldig!”

                A flick at the shield in his mind told him Schuldig had heard but was not going to just appear in front of him instantaneously. 

             A minute later, he opened the door and stood there looking perturbed.  “You shrieked, mien fuehrer.”

                “Stop calling me that.”  

                “It’s a perfectly good German word for ‘leader’,” Schuldig protested.

                “Not when it gives me the creeps wondering if you are imagining being serviced by a creepy little Austrian with a bad mustache instead of me when we are in bed,” Brad stated.

                Schuldig blanched.  Not easy with such a white complexion in the first place, but oh yes how satisfying it was to see the remaining color drain out of him, target reached, objective achieved.

                “Take Farfarello and go check on that little by-blow—On Governor Takatori’s dear little daughter.” He switched to a purr. 

                Schuldig found the nerve control to shut his mouth and then opened it again.  “Yes, Brad.” He said faintly, as if his throat had gone dry. 

                Obviously that was going to keep him rethinking things for at least a few hours.  “And Schuldig,” he stopped him as he was turning to leave the doorway.

                He turned back.  “Yes—Brad,” he said.

                “Make her life as much of a living hell as you can without actually killing her,” Brad said.  “Daddy dearest may be the new governor of Tokyo, but Mommy is still a dried up bar whore blackmailing our employer.  Let’s make that clear to the little princess, shall we?”  He knew it was incredibly petty, but when the little bitch had treated him like her personal slave the other day, he’d been hard put not to strangle her on the spot. 

                “Without actually killing her?” Schuldig said, just to be clear on how far not actually killing her meant he could go.

                “Without allowing her to be gang raped by street thugs. Just about that far,” Crawford said. 

                Schuldig sulked.  “If you say so, mien—Mann,” he quickly caught himself and switched. 

                Brad glared at him briefly but let the new designation slide.  “Now get out of my sight, you distraction.  I have work to do.”

                That put the color back into him.  Schuldig unwittingly did an impression of champaign about to bubble out of the bottle and got himself out of Crawford’s sight as ordered, shutting the door behind him.

                Brad smirked.  So easy to manipulate.  He picked up the phone again and thumbed out his day planner ap, looking up a number.  Speaking of spoilt little princesses….

”Takatori Laboratory,” the little whack-job giggled at the rhyme. 

“Tot-chan, how are you, dumpling?” Brad said in his most saccharine voice. 

“Tot-chan is fine, Crawford-san,” she sobered up, realizing who was on the phone.  “Rabbi-chan says I shouldn’t talk to you.  You’re strange.”

“Would Rabbi-chan mind if I asked you to let me talk to Helle-sensei?” he coaxed and then counted down from ten slowly while she consulted with her stuffed rabbit in sotto voce whispers.

“Rabbi-chan wants to know why you want to talk to Helle-chan instead of Daddy,” she stated.

Damn Rabbi-chans’ perceptiveness! 

“Because ‘Daddy’ is a very busy doctor, and I don’t want to disturb him.  I have some very important questions to ask Helle-sensei, within her area of expertise.  What would Rabbi-chan suggest?”

He started counting down again, gently rubbing the throbbing vein in his temple, hoping it wasn't really going to actually burst some day in just such a situation. 

“Rabbi-chan is going to go get Helle-chan,” she said and set the phone down where ever it was.

He heard her heels clicking off down a hall way.

At least there wasn’t any muzak.

Oddly, by the time Helle picked up the receiver Brad found himself humming and singing along to The Girl from Ipanema playing in his own head anyway.

“What is it, Crawford.” She demanded.

Me-yow, someone got out on the wrong side of the cat box this morning.  “I was contemplating a mutual exchange of information.”

“I haven’t got time for your spying,” she snapped.  “We’re not interested in politics here.”

“Oh, but I think you might be in this particular instance,” he plowed on.  “Kritiker has a lab of their own they send captured suspects to for what appear to be experiments as well as interrogation.”

Her breathing changed on the receiver. “Experiments?” she said huskily.

“Something to do with mind control or brain washing,” Crawford said.  “This could be a problem if they were to get hold of one our—mutual acquaintances.  With your connections, would it be possible, for some sum of money of course, for you to look a little further into the activities of this private hospital?”

“How much money?” she said after a few seconds contemplation.

“If you’re willing to fill a list of questions with answers about this place…?” Brad dangled the carrot.

“How much money?”

“Say, a billion yen per question?” he offered.

“Be here at 3:30.” She hung up on him.

He set down the receiver.  Got to love mad scientists. Always on the take.  Now, where was he going to get that money from?  “Nagi!”

 

*       *       *

 

Yohji was dreaming.  But it wasn’t that dream again, which struck him as being very odd, but at least—his head wasn’t hurting.  Was one supposed to dream under anesthesia?  And if he was unconscious, how was he able to distinguish that fact? 

He looked across the table he was sitting at, at Takatori’s tall, dark, handsome (now there was a trope) body guard.  He had a beer in his hand.  The bodyguard was just laughing over something and setting his own beer back down on the table.  Where were they anyway?  Outside on a patio, with a light breeze and warm sun, shaded by trees.  It wasn’t any place he knew in Tokyo.  The man said something and Yohji didn’t understand him.  Was it going to be one of those dreams?  Where everything but the language factor worked, like reading a book and realizing one didn’t understand the letters?  He hadn’t had that one since school days….

He blinked.  “I’m sorry, zoned out for a minute.”

“I suppose they’ve been running you ragged,” the man said having a forkful of salad, chewing it.  Yohji was very aware of his every movement, details.  Dreams were like that, hyper vivid ones especially.  In reality people didn’t pay that much attention, did they. 

“It hasn’t been that bad, not like Paris,” Yohji heard himself saying. 

What the hell, Paris?  If he had to have a dream involving Paris, could it please not be just mentioned in passing? 

“Well, you look good,” the man said.

Yohji felt himself smile, and start to come up with a smug remark about the obvious, but then stopped.  Something about this dream was counter to what he had been experiencing lately.  “I—haven’t felt like myself lately, to be honest,” he said, trying to figure out what his mind was attempting to tell him. 

The man frowned.  “No, you haven’t been.  When was the last time you were yourself, Yuuji?”

Yuuji?

“I think you’d better leave now, before that Doctor comes back,” the man said, stabbing his fork into the salad again.

Pain shot through Yohji’s head and the dreamscape shut off like a light going out. 

 

“Doctor, the patient is fighting the sedative,” the nurse reported over the intercom, watching Kudoh spasm under the restraints. 

“I’ll be right there, Nurse,” the doctor responded calmly. 

She bent to check the man’s eyes and make sure he hadn’t swallowed his tongue or something.

His eyes snapped open and focused on her, but still had that look of not really comprehending.

“Stay calm, Kudoh-san,” she said. “You’re having a bad reaction to the sedative.”

The light changed in his eyes.  The focus became clear and real.  He smiled. “Hi,” he said.  “Could I trouble you for a glass of water?” 

She felt a little flustered at his smile, and went to the small sink to fill a paper cup. 

“I can’t seem to sit up,” he said as she brought it back. 

“You’re strapped down, to keep you from injuring yourself.”

“I’ll drowned if I drink water in this position,” he said.  “I tend to choke easily.  Nerves I guess.  Can you lever the bed up?”

“I’m afraid this gurney doesn’t work like that,” she said, regretting using that particular one for him.  Doctor had seemed to be in a hurry so she just had the orderly grab the nearest one. 

“Well, then, you’re going to have to unstrap me,” he said playfully.

She set the cup down and started working free the buckle on the strap on his neck.  She felt silly for blushing.  “Kudoh-san, you’re making me nervous,” she said.  He was looking right at her, right into her eyes.  Japanese men only did that under one circumstance and she was well aware of how handsome he was. 

“One more buckle,” he said. 

                She smiled, flustered and distracted, and just kept unbuckling. 

                He caught her hand when she had undone the one across his thighs.  He was sitting up now.  My, he was tall.  She looked at him. And such pretty hazel green eyes….

                “That cup of water?” he said, smoothing his hand along his arm, just under her range of vision, pulling the IV out and pressing a finger on the welling blood spot.

                She turned to get the cup.

                He undid the last two straps on his ankles himself and swung his legs off the gurney, clamping down on the dripping vein in his arm again, willing the blood to stop, searching the room for potential weapons. 

                She handed him the cup. 

                He drank it, keeping her eyes locked on his.  “Thank you,” he said.  “Can I have one more, please?”

                “Doctor should be her any minute,” she said, taking the cup and turning to the sink again.  “Has your headache gone away?”

                “Yes,” he said, looping the IV tubing around her neck.

                She gasped and tried to free herself, but it was too late.  She’d already expended her lung full of air and he wasn’t letting her get another one. 

                Yohji let her slide to the floor, checking her pulse.  It fluttered.  He frowned.  He’d barely stopped himself from cutting her off completely, finding it difficult to interrupt a reflex pattern.  What the hell was he doing anyway? 

                He just couldn’t shake the feeling that it was true. He’d better leave now. 

Dreams were funny things, but he’d done a lot of thinking about that in the past years and he’d decided that what ever was going on, something was trying to tell him something.  Instinct, intuition, whatever, he had to go with this.  They hadn’t done anything more than strip off his shirt, and he couldn’t find it, so he bailed without it.  The closest window was only a two story drop.  He swung up onto the narrow ledge and looked around, then  grabbed a drain pipe.  Testing it, he swung his weight on it.  It snapped, as expected, at the top.  He used it to vault to the ground a little slower than a direct jump, enough to land lightly, flexing his knees and thighs to take the impact.

                His keys and wallet were where he’d left them, under the carpet of the luggage space behind the seats of the Seven. He wasn’t sure where he had picked up that habit, but it seemed safer somehow to leave things like that in an open convertible than keep them on himself in some situations.  He started the car up and ran it out of the gravel paved parking lot without haste, not to draw attention. 

                His head still gave him some nasty jabs, but he was pretty damned sure that whatever was going on in that place was something he didn’t need to go through again. 

                Augh!

The pain nearly made him swerve off the road that time.  He put both hands on the wheel and steeled himself to put up with more of that shit until he could pull over and get a cup of coffee or something and get the rest of the anesthetic out of his system.  Maybe that wasn’t such a good thing either, but he’d rather not be drugged, even if it meant having his head feel like it was going to explode.

 

*       *       *

 

                “Where’s Yohji?” Ken asked. 

                “He went to see a doctor,” Aya looked at the clock.  “He said he’s been having headaches.”

                “Are you sure he wasn’t just getting out of work for a day?” Ken bounced the soccer ball he was holding a couple of times.

                Aya looked irritated, both at the suggestion and the noise.  “He asked ‘me’ to call Manx, that’s not the usual method of getting out of work, is it?” He went back to counting the evening cash drawer check. 

                Ken stopped bouncing the ball.  “Manx?  Why?”

                “For a doctor,” Aya said, acutely aware he was talking to a moron.  “And yes, before you ask, he’s been gone all day.  Which makes me wonder if there isn’t something really wrong with him.”

                The door bell clanged and Yohji stepped into the shop in his undershirt, looking unusually irritated.

                Aya and Ken stared at him as he strode through the shop, heading for the curtain to the back rooms.

                “What did the doctor say?” Aya asked.

                Yohji stopped and looked at him.  “You were right.  I’m taking a little vacation.  If anyone asks, tell them I said the doctor said I needed a break.”

                “But Yohji, what—,”

                Yohji reached over to catch Aya by the upper arm, looking at him.  “Cover your ass, Fujimiya.  All you know is what I told you, you got that?  That’s all you know.”     

           Aya gapped at him.  “Yohji—what…,” he tried to catch the man’s wrist. 

                “I’m outta here,” Yohji pulled free.

 

                  *       *       *

 

                “Drama,” Schuldig commented.

                 “Are we going to kill Tsukiyono or not?” Farfarello asked.

                 Schuldig debated that plan.  “Not right now.  This is more interesting.”

                “Driving around in circles with you is not interesting,” the Irishman said.

                “Just because I won’t discus religion with you does not mean I am not interesting,” Schuldig retorted.  “It means I’m one of the sane people who know that religion and politics are two subjects no sane person discusses.”

                “So what exactly is so interesting that we aren’t going to kill Tsukiyono?” Farfarello said, bored silly. 

                “Leaving him alive so I can mess with his head later and focus right now on the mess I just found in that Kudoh guy’s head.”  Schuldig watched the man toss a suit case in his ridiculous car and get into it. “Looks like a rat just abandoned ship.”

                “I thought his code name was Balinese.  That’s a cat, not a rat.  If he were a rat, his code name would be Belgian or something,” Farf wasn’t even trying to be funny about it, because he knew that would make it even more irritating to the already irritated telepath. 

                Schuldig looked at him.  “Would you rather be hanging upside down in a cell in Rozencruz?”

                “Yes,” Farfarello said.

                “Well tough!” Schuldig stated, starting the car. 

               

                *       *       *

               

                Brad accepted the coffee, started to sip it, started talking and set it down.  People rarely noticed that little slight of hand, or was it slight of lip, trick.  He wasn’t ingesting any food or drink in this place, ever.  “Doctor Koreshige Yasue.”

                Helle frowned. “His specialty was rehabilitating criminals.”

                Really?  Brad let this sink in readily.  “And what would that involve?”

                “It’s really quite simple in theory as well as practice. You shock the patient until he or she is completely disoriented and then reprogram them with a new objective in life.  Combined with hypnosis and conditioning, and working along the patient’s own personality pattern, reworking the decision making process.  I read his paper in school.  The government was quite ready to use it at the time, but the American occupation forces said no.  It was too sensitive for them.” She looked very disapproving.  He had a feeling it wasn’t over the sensitivity of the shock treatments, either. 

                “Wouldn’t that wear off after a while?”

                “Certainly,” she set her cup down and smoothed her hands together on her lap.  “The ideal conditions would be to keep the patient off balance for an extended period of time, until the new personality traits became habit.  Habit is a very powerful thing, anyone who’s tried to quit smoking will tell you it’s not just the addiction to nicotine.  If the patient is kept in a stressful situation, constantly moved into new surroundings, thrown in with new people every few months, that sort of thing, it reinforces the new conditioning.  What Koreshige was doing with trigger words was amazing for the time.  For instance, if you were to tie the trigger word to the patient's own name.  Each time someone spoke to the patient, it would reinforce the programming.”

                “What would break the programming?” Brad asked. 

                She shrugged.  “I have no idea.  I would think—removing the patient from the trigger environment?   Re-programming under the same conditions, perhaps.  It could presumably just wear off eventually, I suppose, but no one’s followed up on Koreshige’s research.”

                Brad picked  up the brief case he’d brought with him and set it on the coffee table.  “I hadn’t expected such a quick response to my request.  I hope this will be more than enough.”  He unlocked the case and turned it for her to inspect. 

                “How much,” she stated

                “5 billion Yen,” he said.

                She smirked at him.  “I doubt I’ve answered 5 questions.”

                “Oh, you’ve more than answered all my questions,” Brad said.  “Call it a bonus for expedition.” He stood up and smoothed down his jacket, then bowed.  “Thank you, Helle-sensei.”

                She stood up to see him to the door.  “Feel free to throw any more money you have laying around at us when you need answers, Crawford.”

                “That’s very—“ Slam! “—generous of you.” He frowned at the sudden push.  She’d actually shut the door on his ass! 

                Tot was playing with her damned rabbit in the drive way, pretending Rabbi-chan could fly, and stopped to watch him walk up to his car.  She held the pink bunny up in front of her face, just under her eyes.  “Rabbi–chan and I are keeping our eyes on you, Crawford-san.” She squeaked.

                “Good day, Tot-chan, Rabbi-chan,” he smirked and got in his car. 

                Rats, she was smart enough to step back behind the gate post so he couldn’t accidentally run her down.

                Suspicions confirmed, Brad considered what to do next. 

 

*       *       *

 

                Birman, as she was code named, was surprised to see Kudoh step out of the shadows of the small front garden to her little house in the Tama Mountain estates.  She had an arm full of groceries and was totally unprepared to pull the gun out of her thigh holster.  “Balinese,” she said, betraying her sudden nervousness.  “What are you doing here?”

                “Let me help you with those,” he said, slipping the heavy bag from her hands and standing there holding it, waiting for her to open her door. 

                She fumbled with her keys, unlocking the door and wondering if she should go for the gun.  “Is—something wrong?”

                “We haven’t seen each other in a while,” he said, following her into the house and shutting the door behind him.  He looked around.  “The kitchen?”

                “Through here,” she lead the way through an amber paneled set of sliding doors. 

                He set the groceries down on the counter beside the sink and refrigerator.  “I’ve been having some problems.” He sat down at the kitchen table, radiating complete harmless in his usual almost boneless grace. 

                “What—sort of problems?” she said, muscles tensed, but forcing herself to go through the motions of unpacking and putting the food away. 

                “Bad dreams, bouts of headaches, disorientation.  I realize how it’s going to affect my ability to perform for Kritiker.”

                She ran water in a kettle and put it on the electric stove to boil.  “I can see where that would disturb you.”  Agents who weren’t up to keeping up with missions were often found to be compromised.  Kudoh himself had been sent to deal with a few of them.  You didn’t just walk away from Kritiker.  “But why not talk to Manx, your current supervisor?” she asked, getting two mugs down and the box of tea.  “Why come to me?”

                “Because you were there when I was recruited,” he said. “And I think you might know more about the circumstances that lead to my recruitment.  Don’t you.”

                She turned to look at him.  “Kudoh—-Yohji-kun—-what’s troubling you?” she said softly, pushing a stray lock of her fringe out of her eyes. 

                “Who was Asuka?” he asked.

                She blinked.  “Who was—I’m not sure who you’re taking about.”

                “That’s really strange because anyone who knows me knows that I was recruited after nearly being killed with her,” Yohji said, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing his ankles, completely relaxed in the chair. “I was in love with her, she was killed, slaughtered in front of me, and when I woke up in the hospital, I wished I was dead.  Since then, I’ve had screaming nightmares about her to the point where my team mates have had to learn to just put up with it.  And the drinking and the sexual addiction that under any other job situation would have caused me to be fired, but somehow doesn’t phase Kritiker. In fact—Kritiker sends me on assignments that take full advantage of my ability to charm the ladies, which doesn’t help with my sense of guilt over Asuka’s death at all.”  He frowned at his toes. “Don’t you think that’s odd?”

                “We deal with people who play dirty,” she said.  “Sometimes we have to play just as dirty to win.  You haven't been turning down the missions."

                The kettle started to whistle, making her jump a little.  She turned off the stove and poured out two mugs of hot water.  “Pekoe or green?”

                “Pekoe,” he said calmly. 

                Well, it didn’t look like she’d have to fight him off with scalding water, either.  What was he up to?  Could this really  just be as simple as it looked?  A quest for information?

                She set a mug down in front of him and got the sugar bowl out of the cupboard and put it on the table with a spoon. “A few of the reports have mentioned you having nightmares, yes.” She said, sitting down and waiting for more elaboration.

                “You do know about Fujimiya’s sister, right?” He asked.

                “Terribly sad story there,” she said, dunking her teabag up and down in the water.  “We’re doing all we can to see that she is at least comfortable.” 

                “But not Asuka,” he said. 

                “But as you say, this Asuka is dead.  It doesn’t really do us any good to get too deeply involved in agent’s personal problems, Yohji,” she said levelly, taking the bag out of the mug and setting it in a dish on the table.  “We have enough to deal with without constantly turning over the pasts of our agents.  If you need some help, of course we have doctors who can….”

                “Doctors like Koreshige?” he said.

                  She looked at him, then smiled a little.  “I seem to remember someone by that name.  He’s very good with patients who need trauma therapy.  Was he your doctor?”

                He yanked the table up and over on her, spilling both mugs of hot water on her and using the table to pin her down, reaching down with one hand to pull the little gun out of her thigh holster and flick the safety off it, aiming it at her head while she struggled in shock at his sudden attack. “Who was Asuka?” he stated.

                “I don’t know!” she said, grateful that the water had been poured into cold mugs and hadn’t burned after the first initial seconds.  “Yohji, think, what are you doing!  What’s happened to you!  Why are you doing this!”

                “Where does Kritiker keep the past case files?” He demanded, putting pressure on the edge of the table, forcing the other side down harder on her chest. 

                “They’re destroyed, once the criminals are caught and dealt with, the files are destroyed.  We can’t risk being connected in any way if there’s an investigation!” 

                “You’re lying!” he accused. 

                “I’m not!  It’s true.  You know the risks, Kudoh!  We’d be executed for crimes against the state!”

                He aimed the gun at her head and tried very hard to find a reason not to do it.  But all he could remember was the way she talked down to people, the way she’d held a gun to Aya’s head, while holding them back to kill him if he should refuse to come back to Kritiker.  It was no used.  He couldn’t stand it.  Something just wasn’t right here and she was part of it.  “I’m not one of your dogs, Birman,” he hissed, and pulled the trigger. 

                Splinters from the wood floor dug into her cheek.  “Your files were destroyed!  Why would I lie!” she screamed. 

                He shot again, this time on the other side, pressing harder to make sure she didn’t dislodge the table in an adrenaline rush of muscle power.  “Who was Asuka!” he yelled at her.

                “I don’t know!” she yelled back at him.  “Think what your doing, Kudoh, you need help!”

                “I need help,” he said quietly over her struggling and sobbing.  “Somehow I don’t think you’re the one who wants to give it to me.”

                One more shot and it was over.  She lay there with a hole in her forehead.  He stood up, letting go of the table, letting it fall, waiting for the realization to hit him.  The remorse he should be feeling, the ‘oh my god what the fuck have I done?’ sensation any normal human being would feel after something like this to set in.

                It didn’t.  He flipped his hair out of his face and swallowed hard.  He backed up another step and then grabbed a hand towel from the rack and wiped off the gun and tossed it in a corner.  The only thing he’d actually put his fingertips on were the paper bag and the door handle from the inside to shut it.  He grabbed the folded bag off the counter top and wiped the door handle with the towel and then used it to shut the door behind him.  He took off walking calmly down the short drive and out the gate, to where he’d parked the Seven; around the corner and down a few blocks to be out of her sight when she’d come home. 

                He sat in the car and pulled his hair back, then let it go and closed his eyes, wondering what the hell he was actually doing here; questioning it just as she had told him to.  He’d just killed Birman.  He’d actually killed her.   

               

 

                “Wow,” Farfarello said, having listened to the running verbal report Schuldig had given on what had gone down in Kudoh’s head when the woman had shown up at the house he’d been staking out.  “I wish we could just kill our bosses.”

                “Don’t even think about it!” Schuldig warned.  “I mean that, too!”

                “I’m insane, I can think anything I want,” Farf said.  “Still, that’s impressive.  So, what’s the deal with him, anyway?” 

                “Seems like some sort of complete breakdown,” Schuldig frowned.  Except instead of getting crazy, Kudoh's mind was working more like it was getting saner?  But he couldn’t exactly explain that to Farfarello.  

                His phone rang.  He pulled it out, looked at the screen and answered it.  “Yes, Brad.”

                “Where the hell are you?”

                “Tama Mountain Estates,” Schuldig said.  “Following a lead.”

                “A lead?  A lead on what?”

                “Wouldn’t you just love to know,” Schuldig couldn’t help himself.  “You said to make the brat’s life a living hell.”

                “If you’re following a lead, then why is she here at Takatori’s office making MY life a living hell?” Brad hissed into the phone. 

                “Well, there are hells and then there are other hells, Brad, have you not read this?  You have to be more specific on what hell you actually mean.” Schuldig obfuscated expertly. 

                “I am having a brain hemorrhage,” Brad was doing a really good snake impression actually.  “Get your ass back here NOW.”

                “Yes mein—Mann,” he caught himself again and shuddered.  “I’m coming right back, but you should keep in mind that it is sunset and there will be traffic….”

                “Schuldig.”

                “Yes, Brad?”

                “The faster you get back here, the faster I will shove it into you so hard you will feel it in the back of your sinuses, and then I will fuck your brains numb. ”

                Schuldig hung up on him and turned the car on, the tires screeching as he turned it away from the curb and the car fishtailing before gaining the street in a straight line.

                Farfarello put on his seat belt and was really glad he wasn’t going to feel anything if Schuldig wrecked the car again. 

                A kilometer later, Schuldig realized that it probably would have been a good idea to follow Kudoh, but it was too late now.  A guy had to have his priorities.


	5. Five

“You’re even more quiet than usual,” Schuldig said. 

                Brad considered staying quiet, but that would only lead to more of Schuldig talking.  Schuldig talked to cover up the noise in his head.  This was not an attractive trait in a bed mate.  And he felt a rather poignant human need to get things off his chest.  Or did that have something to do with the redhead half sprawled on his chest.  He tangled up his fingers again in Schuldig’s hair and gave a little tug, then let up and patted him.  “Can you loosen up the barriers on my talent?”

                Schuldig frowned, thinking this one over carefully.  He flopped over onto his back and looked up at the ceiling.  “I’ve never tried to undo anything they’ve done before.  And what if they find out?”

                “How will they do that?” Brad turned and propped himself up on one elbow to trail a finger down Schuldig’s sternum. 

                Schuldig caught his hand.  “You know I’m ticklish!”

                “I’ll torture you if you don’t at least try,” Brad informed him, looking into his eyes. 

                Schuldig moved up to kiss him.  “You’re awful.”

                “I practice.”

                “And how am I supposed to get in there and pick at all those locks,” he tapped Brad’s forehead, “when you don’t like me ‘messing around’ in there in the first place.  You know, if we are to do this sort of thing right, I should know you well enough to be able to see when something is out of place.” He frowned a little. 

                “I’m going to count to ten, and then, you’re fair game,” Brad stated.  “And I warn you, I see you peeing the bed, so you’d better just do as I say now.  But get up and go to the bathroom first.” He laid back on his back.

                “I hate you,” Schuldig got up and padded off to use the toilet. 

                When he came back, Brad was sitting on the edge of the bed with his underwear back on.  “What the hell?” Schu asked.

                “It’s my junk, I don’t want it on display,” his eyes swept over the completely naked and somewhat freckled body in front of him. 

                “Ah, but you see, you have to be completely naked for this,” Schuldig leaned over him, forcing him to lay back on the bed and then straddled him. “Otherwise, something might go terribly wrong.”

                “Bullshit,” Brad laughed, looking up at him.

                Schuldig got up and went to get his own briefs and to make it very clear he was unhappy, his slacks as well.  He stuck his tongue out at Brad and zipped them up.

                “Not thanks, it’s still a bit sticky from earlier, I don’t think I can take any more until I’ve had a shower.” Brad was sitting up again. 

                “Lay down, I don’t want you having any kind of fit or something if I hit the wrong spots.” Schuldig ordered.

                Brad questioned this, found it sound and stretched out on the bed fully again, making himself relax as completely as he could.

                Schuldig sat on a chair and then scooted it closer to the edge of the bed. 

                “How far will you need to go?” Brad almost sounded like he might be nervous.  Schuldig wondered if he was really, or just pretending.  Sometimes he wondered if the man had any real emotions at all, or if everything was just for show. 

                “We’ll see,” Schuldig said.  “It’s not like you’re going to be unconscious and I can have my wicked way with you.”

                “Are you still bitter about that?”

                Schuldig frowned. “Yes, actually.  Now shut up and think.”

                “Oh, so you have been learning over the years,” Brad said, then decided he would stop delaying it and let him get to work. 

                The telepath slipped into his mind like a nervous cat half through a not quite open door.  Brad hesitated, then let him in all the way. 

                /Jesus Christ, don’t you ever sweep up in here?/ Schuldig said.

                /I’m going to kill you if you don’t stop joking around and follow orders/

                /Yes mein—-/ he stopped short, and this time Brad actually felt the effect his earlier threat had had on Schuldig.  It was amusing.

                /I’m glad you’re happy about something,/ Schuldig said dully.  “How am I supposed to figure this out if you’re locked up tighter than a vestal virgin when the fleet’s in?”

                Brad took a deep breath and tried very hard to relax.

                Schuldig poked around, twinging this and that, and suddenly Brad had a fleeting sense of being lost in a hurricane and locked him out again. 

                “I think I found it,” Schuldig said aloud.

                Brad opened his eyes and looked at him.  “That was it?”

               “That was what it looks like to me,” Schuldig said.  “My mind interpreting your thoughts, your talent.  Scary as hell.  And I’m supposed to let that thing out?”

                “It’s not a ‘thing’, Schuldig, it’s part of my mind, and they shoved it in a box of cotton wool.” Brad was getting irritated.  “Get back in there.”

                /If I go screaming mad, I hope Nagi makes your old age a living hell/ Schuldig said.  Then he went looking for that ‘spot’ again. 

                This time when he found it, it was less frightening.  /What did you do?/

                /I’m not sure, I think I toned it down, but since I don’t have direct access, I’m not sure at all what’s happening./

                /My god is it that simple?/ Schuldig almost shouted, and got a smack inside the head for it.  “Ouch! Damn it!”

                /Don’t yell inside people’s heads!/ Brad snapped.  /Is it how simple?  Really simple or just your idea of simple, which the last time lead to a real mess./

                /That simple. I can’t believe they did this…./

                Brad went into a sort of epilepsy attack, but he wasn’t blacking out from it, and that was the worst part.  He felt he desperately wanted to black out from everything being done to his head and neural system, but he couldn’t.  He felt his gorge rise and was about to throw up. 

                Schuldig let him go just in time to get him the trash bucket. 

                Brad waivered between losing it and relief.  Relief won.  “Damn,” he said.

                Schuldig put the trash bucket back beside the bed table.  “All right so far?”

                “What the hell were you doing in there?”

                “Rewiring.  It’s too complicated to explain.” 

                Brad shot him a look.  He was enjoying this too much. 

                “Well?” Schuldig demanded mildly.  “Are you going to see if it worked or not?”

                Brad laid back down, just in case, and composed himself.  Then he slowly let the damper he’d put on his own talent lift a little.  Five seconds from now—Schuldig was going to get irritated and start pacing….  Ten seconds, Nagi would turn over in his sleep and throw the blankets off with his talent. Fifteen seconds—an hour later—

                He pulled back and sat up, looking at Schuldig.  “You actually did it,” he said.  “It was that easy?”

                “Obviously, if that’s what you say.  How far?”

                “Far enough, for now,” Brad remembered what he had been warned all too well.  ‘Don’t push your luck.’  The first time he had gone farther than a day, he’d woken up trussed up just as tight as they sometimes kept Farfarello and a week later.  The fact that he’d come back just in time to cancel the order to dispose of him was enough to convince them that he at least had survival instincts strong enough to pull back from madness. 

                Schuldig pounced on him.  “I did it!”

                “Yes, you did, but that’s no reason to act like a lunatic!” Brad manhandled him back down on his back, and kissed him on the chin.  “Was it really that simple?” he asked again.

                “Yes,” Schuldig said, mussing up that ink black hair and looking into amber colored eyes.  “Do you trust me now?”

                “Not a bit.”

                Schuldig frowned.  “Next time, clean your own damned mind.”

                “I prefer it dirty,”  Brad nuzzled his cheek and murmured.  “If it was that easy to undo months of work, what can you get up to, I wonder?”

                Schuldig grabbed his hand and put it between his own legs.  “Feel for your self."

                “Again?”

                “Problem?”

                “Only the bitching about the back ache I’m going to have to listen in the morning,” Brad complained and got up to take his briefs off again.

                “Then don’t give me one,” Schuldig said, shimmying out of his slacks on the bed.

                “It’s not my fault you make me want to tie you in knots and do nasty things to you,” Brad landed on him roughly.

                Schuldig laughed and was smothered with a kiss.

 

               

Waking up with a headache was the least of his worries.  He’d been dumped into nightmares of the sort he hadn’t had to deal with for quite a while, his mind taking everything thrown at it via his talent and molding it into the worst of everything that could possibly happen.  He practically curled up in a fetal position around his coffee cup at the break of dawn. 

“Rough night?” Nagi asked with his usual deadpan manner.

“I’ll increase your allowance if you stop breathing so loud,” Brad whispered and swallowed more coffee.

“Did you tell him,” Farfarello looked at Schuldig. 

“Tell him what?” Brad asked, knowing it was meant for him, whether he wanted it or not.

“About Balinese going off his rocker and killing one the Kritiker high mucky mucks,” Farfarello said.

“Nagi, get me one of Farfarello’s anti-psychotics,” Brad said, holding his head on his shoulders, sure it was going to fall off.

“I don’t think….” Nagi started.

                “Then don’t,” Brad looked at him angrily.  “Just do.”

                Nagi got up and went to get the bottle of pills from the suit case under his bed. 

                “I’ve already had my meds this morning,” Farf said.

                “It’s not for you,” Brad stated.  Then it sunk in.  That wasn’t all a nightmare.  “Holy shit,” he said.

                Schuldig looked at him, half asleep for an entirely different reason.  He just wasn’t a morning person.  “What?” he started to worry.

                “Why didn’t you tell me!” Brad demanded, then held onto his head again. 

                “Tell you what?  That one of Weiss is nuttier than Farfarello?”

                Farfarello didn’t take that well.  “That was uncalled for,” he said.  “I doubt any of them can even begin to appreciate the artistic level I’ve perfected after years of striving, the fine balance….”

                Brad was glaring at him.

                Farfarello shut up and ate his oatmeal.  Scared the crap out of him, that man did. 

                Nagi came back with the little plastic bottle.  Brad grabbed it from him and opened it, swallowing one with his coffee and handing the bottle and cap back.  “Alright, Schuldig, spill it, before I decide to make your skull into a door stop.”

                Schuldig paled, remembering exactly where he’d seen the last telepath who’s skull had been made into a door stop.  “I—I—I…” his coffee cup rattled on the table and he let go of it. 

                “I’m leaving this mad tea party,” Nagi got his school uniform jacket off the back of the chair and headed for the door.   

                “Balinese took off from the flower shop as we were observing them from a safe distance,” Farfarello said.  “Schuldig said something was up with his head and started following him.  Then we ended up in Tama Mountain Estates sittin’ around for an hour or so and this bint shows up at the house Balinese is hauntin’ and he offs her.”

                “And then?” Brad was still looking at Schuldig.

                “Well, I was going to follow him some more, but you ordered me back,” Schuldig said.

                “You read his mind.” Brad stated.

                “Of course.  Shouldn’t I have?” Schuldig didn’t like the look in Brad’s eyes at the moment.  He’d seen nuts-mad and this was nuts-mad with exponential values attached. 

                “What was in his mind?” Brad hissed.

                “Well, that was just it,” Schuldig said.  “On your orders,” he felt the need to remind him, “I’ve been monitoring the four of them, and you get to know people when you read their minds like the newspaper every day.  And he suddenly went whack.  He went to see some doctor about the nightmares he’s been having about this woman he was obsessed with and what ever they did to him, there, he’s whack.”

                “Whack,” Brad stated.

                Schuldig squirmed.  “There’s no other way to describe it.  One minute he’s one person, the next, he’s all confused and acting like another person, except he’s not sure which person to be acting like and—“ he frowned, realizing something.  “It’s like he’s somebody else who’s just come home and found his house being lived in and someone’s been pretending to be him,” he finished softly.  “That’s what he was thinking.  He’s confused, really confused, because now he’s not sure he’s in the right head at all.  Like he’s got the wrong key to a row house—and the furniture’s the same, but the photos on the wall are different.”

                Brad was very silent now.  Scary silent.

                Schuldig got worried on instinct alone.  “What is it?”

                 “Someone I knew once said that.  ‘Every time I get back from a job, I feel like I’ve walked into the wrong house’.  That’s what he said….”

                “Maybe we shouldn’t have messed with the locks,” Schuldig said. 

                Brad put his face in his hands, and tried not to let the crisis and confusion swallow him up.  The nightmares, everything he’d been running from in the nightmares…was about to come true.  Not nightmares, premonitions.  He had to stop them.  He had to stop everything.  He got up and went to finish getting dressed. 

                “Brad?” Schuldig followed him.

                “Get your clothes on,” Brad ordered. 

                “Why?” Schuldig asked somewhat slowly.

                “Because Balinese is one of us and he’s going to need an extraction,” Brad looked at him as he knotted his tie.  “Now get moving.”

                “He tried to cut my head off!” Schuldig protested, surprised and pissed.

                “I’ve tried to shoot you three times,” Brad grabbed his suit jacket.  “Now move it!”

 

 

 

                Yohji had stashed the Seven in a leased shipping container.  He’d rented a car, bought some over the counter medication for the headache, checked into a hotel and got some much needed sleep.  When he woke, it was late the  next morning, time enough to start searching records.  He tried everything he could, starting around the time he had been in the hospital and going back a bit further.  Newspapers, missing persons, family records, recorded deaths, he came up with nothing.  Not for him, nor for an ‘Asuka’ the right age, no body found resembling her description, no woman reported missing at the time of her death, and no one reported him missing.

                Kritiker was supposed to have erased their records somehow, but if that were true, why did the others still use their own names?  He had assumed he was using his own name.  Was he? 

                He had no doubt that Kritiker was already looking for him.  He’d automatically taken the precaution of pulling money out of the bank account Kritiker put his pay into.  He hoped they didn’t know about the other account.  The one he where he put the money they must think he spent on women and alcohol.   He’d never thought about that habit of stashing money before.  It was just second nature to keep somethings out of sight, under his own lock and key. 

There were things he did that made him very curious about why he did them now, and that curiosity seemed to trigger the stabbing pains in his head.  The back up bank account, the double, sometimes triple trails he left, the way his mind worked when he was sober and well rested, the suspicion that nothing was what he thought it was.

                Birman had recruited him, used him on other assignments to recruit agents.  Surely she’d known something.   He’d screwed that one up, he should have held onto her a little longer, got the information out of her, but he’d just—lost it.  The sense of cold rage had over taken him. 

                He’d have to go back to the clinic.  If there were any records left at all, they had to be there.  How else would the doctor keep up with what he’d done to agents? 

He checked his watch.  He had at least until midnight before the place would conceivably be on skeleton shift, only enough staff to monitor the onsite patients, and security.  Until then, he’d get some more sleep.  The medicine was making him woozy in between the torturing pain waves.  Maybe he had snapped, maybe it was overwork, but why, for years, had he just accepted what people told him? 

                He realized one of the things that was nagging at him when he was parking the car at the hotel lot.  The rented car had heated up in the sun, and now smelled of deodorizing spray over stale tobacco.  He had left the cigarettes he’d had on him in the Seven.  Something about them repulsed him.  He always hated it when a cover called for smoking….

                He winced as another lash of pain hit him.  Irritated, he got out of the car and slammed the door a little too hard.  Koreshige had to have some kind of records.  Manx had sent him there for a reason. 

                In the hotel room, he swallowed two more pills, washing them down with water, and threw himself on the bed to pass out. 

 

 

                “Is that why you told me to ignore them?” Schuldig asked in Brad’s showy black Benz.

                “I told you to ignore them because they weren’t our assignment, and they still aren’t,” Brad stated.  And as long as the Takatori clan felt threatened, Weiss was an ignorant ally.

                “So tell me what is going on,” Schuldig demanded.  “This is Esset, where people who get caught get executed.  We’re going to kill him, right?  Before Kritiker get anything out of him?” 

                “No,” Brad said.  “Schuldig, will you shut up.”

                Schuldig shut up, but he wasn’t happy about it at all.  Arms crossed and sulking, he shut up.  Waves of ‘shut-up-ness’ came off him in a black cloud of what a new age hippy psychic might call ‘aura’ but Brad just called telepathic static.  And he was doing it deliberately, too.  

                Brad ignored it.  He had to figure out where in Tokyo Yuuji had disappeared to.  And if the man he knew had retained any of his training, that was going to be a real trick.  “Where is he, Schuldig?” he stated.

                Schuldig’s lip twitched but he didn’t say a word, verbal or mental.

                “I’m sure you have some idea, and yes, you can speak now, but only to answer questions.”

                “I don’t know.  I told you, I was going to follow him and you called me off.”

                “Don’t be an ass, Schuldig!” Brad snapped. “Use your brain!”

                “Make up your mind what you want to use me for!  My ass or my brain!” Schuldig counter snapped. 

                “This is not the time to have that fight, Schuldig!”

                “He tried to cut my head off with a fucking wire!” Schuldig yelled in the confines of the car.  “What the HELL, Brad!”

                Brad frowned.   This was exactly why he shouldn’t have—well anyway, there it was.  “For what ever other reason he’s involved in this, he has been compromised. The problem is that Esset has listed him as dead for over two years.”

                “Then let’s correct that problem,” Schuldig said meanly. 

                Brad shot him a look, then got his eyes back on the road.  “Are you working on that order I gave you?”

                “This is Tokyo; do you realize how many minds I’d have to sift through?  In the best of cases, it’s not something you do sitting in a moving car in a bad mood!” 

                Brad was foiled.  He didn’t like being foiled, but there it was.  He didn’t even like the sound of the word ‘foil’, it was stupid.  “Look, Sarazawa and I were in the same levels, I thought he was dead in a failed mission, and suddenly he turns up in Tokyo?  That was a shock, I had to do some investigating.  Now I find out that not only is he brainwashed to believe he’s Kritiker, but it looks like he’s starting to throw off the brain washing from what you’ve described.  Is it remotely possible that you could stop being selfish long enough to do your job, which is to do as I decide needs to be done.”

                Schuldig looked at him.  “So this is personal.”

                “You know damned well Esset doesn’t tell everyone everything.  How the hell was I to know what his assignment was?  He’s a deep cover agent, not a team member.  I didn’t want to compromise his mission.”

                “No, Brad, this is personal, and you’re freaking out,” Schuldig said.  “Normally you think it’s funny if another agent gets his ass in a sling, but suddenly you’re all ‘company first’ and we have to ‘extract’ him and I think there is just the case, just the possibility, with all the stuff you just refuse to tell me flat out, that you’re covering up as fast as you can that there is a lie here.” 

                “There is no lie here!” Brad insisted, angrily.  “I told you.  We were in the same levels, in the same training sessions.  As much as Esset insists on us being aloof, people bond.  It’s inescapable.  It’s not like I owe him anything, it’s just that—I want to know what’s going on myself!”

                Schuldig frowned.  Wrong, wrong, this was all wrong.  A curious Brad was the same as a Brad planning something not so nice for other people; cold, calculating, and merciless.  This was some alien replacement Brad, agitated and putting up shields and deceptions from the one person he kept informed of his plans, if only to make sure he had full use of an asset.  “You said Kritiker was brainwashing him?  He was pissed off over being sent to see a doctor.  It triggered this whole thing with him.”

                “Which triggered you,” Brad said. “So you were sidetracked from the Tsukiyono thing and followed him, where you ‘witnessed’ his murdering one of the Kritiker higher ups.  Were you in his mind when he did it?”

                “I didn’t make him kill her, if that’s what you are insinuating.”

                “But?”

                “He was convinced of someone lying to him, that something someone knows was the key to his sudden paranoia and confusion.  He was questioning himself, his thinking, his reasons.  If he could find out who this Asuka person was, he could open the door to the rest of his answers.”  Now that he faced it, it did make sense.  He didn’t want to face it.  He had a personal grudge against the Japanese blond and his attitude, as well as the way he’d gotten the upper hand on him in a fight.  Being saved by Nagi hadn’t helped his ego at all.  And he’d seen the look in ‘Kudoh’s’ eyes at the loss of his kill.  Schuldig had dodged bullets, had close calls, even a few stitches, and laughed them off.  That that look, that had just made him mad.  Now he had a better idea of why the son of a bitch had been able to outwit him.  Of course, he was Esset trained.  What else could it be but someone actually trained, not one of Kritiker’s pumped up amateurs.  He scowled. 

                “Koreshige,” Brad said.  “He may have access to the same research Esset had during the first attempt to take over.  Records passed down, or stuffed somewhere and rediscovered.  We were all trained to hold onto a focal point, to trigger a reversal of brainwashing, but it sounds like Koreshigi is using the focal point to anchor his work.  And, apparently, Sarazawa had been in an accident, was possibly amnesiatic when he arrived in Tokyo.”

                “Is this why you had me take the shields off your talent?  He’s worth the risk of us all getting exterminated for breaking leash?”

                Brad shot him another glare.  “If you become a problem, this time I will not miss.”

                “That’s not even funny,” Schuldig said quietly.  “You’re threatening me with death over this guy who’s head is so messed up, maybe he should have a bullet, not me.  I unlocked your talent for you without even hesitating, but you know that puts me on the list, and you threaten me with death?  You’ve already condemned me if they find out, condemned us both,” he dragged a hand through his hair. “I give you my life, my loyalty, and you treat me like this.  How stupid am I, the pathetic little telepath who can’t keep his shit together.  Did it even occur to you that I would try to save myself by turning you in.” 

                “No, it did not,” Brad stated. 

                “How am I supposed to take that.  This isn’t even fair.  I’m seeing stuff leaking out all around that huge cement block wall of yours and it’s not right.  Don’t you trust me?”

                Brad realized he had been driving around in what amounted to circles, waiting for Schuldig to just stop being a brat and do as he was told and help him find Yuuji. He found a spot to pull the car over and parked, not giving a damned for the no parking signs.  He looked at the redhead.  “You were assigned to my team a month after I found out that Sarazawa was reported dead.   I lost someone I thought of as a friend, for what ever that’s worth in this organization.  And now he’s suddenly turned up alive.  Wouldn’t you want to know what the fucking hell was going on!” he demanded. 

                Schuldig frowned, picking at a thin spot on the knee of his blue jeans.  “You do things against the rules and I always wondered if that wasn’t maybe just a little bit because you were different from them, better than them. Naïve of me.  I try hard to understand everything, in between the yelling and screaming and all the noise from people’s heads, but sometimes I get it all wrong and by the time I find out, I’m in a real mess, but they’ve forgiven me before.  I don’t think they will this time.” He swallowed hard.  Then he pulled out his gun and aimed it at Brad, looking him in the eyes.  “I’m not even going to miss the first time.”

                Anyone but a precog might have reacted, panicked even, but Brad reached over and tugged the gun free and tossed it in the back seat.  He declined to point out that Schuldig had left the safety on.  “It’s not fair.  It’s not right, and it’s throwing everything out of line.  That’s why I want it fixed and fixed now.  I’m not losing this opportunity, not for anything.  All of them, in one place, completely exposed—it’s a once in a lifetime and I’m not losing it, Schuldig.  We have to find Sarazawa and get him on our side, or out of the way until he can be dealt with.  He may be so far gone he can’t be pulled in, but I’m not going to just write him off the way they did.”

                The gears were grinding, the information being processed.  He hoped to hell Schuldig would come to the same old conclusion; that what ever ‘Brad said’ was good.  That he must have a reason, a plan, and that it was the precog’s coping mechanism that made him resist making all his plans clear. 

                Schuldig’s body language backed down from tense defensiveness to just fatalism.  “As long as it doesn’t change anything.”

                Now that hurt.  He hadn’t even bothered to analyze the dynamics he was throwing out the window here.  He had no way of knowing what Yuuji had been turned into, what he remembered, or if he remembered at all.  He just wanted to do something.  And if it fucked up Kritiker, well, bonus points.  But changing things—that was a big empty space labeled 'deal with later' in his thinking.  And all the memories he’d locked away just didn’t count. 

                He reached over and put his hand on Schuldig’s shoulder.  “I think you’re misinterpreting things.”  He reached up and brushed some hair back so he could see more of the man’s face.  “And I know why,” he sighed a little.  He tried to find some words to make it better.  “It’s okay, Schuldig.  I know mistrust is your first instinct in every case.  I know that’s a survival skill, not some kind of psychological social deficit.  I’m angry because they don’t give a damned about Sarazawa, one of their best infiltration men.  It just reinforces everything I know about them.  I’m going to pull him out of this, and I’m going to make them so sorry they can’t do a thing about it.”  He ran the back of his fingers over the smooth, warm skin of Schuldig’s cheek.  “Nothing about you is wrong. No matter what other people think.  And I know I have to tell you that  over and over again, and will always have to.”  He moved to take Schuldig’s hand and squeezed it gently.  “But you will never be a liability.”

                Schuldig sniffled a little and looked at him with reddened eyes.  “You have no sane concept of romance, do you?”

                “That wasn’t romantic enough for you?”

                “I hate you,” he found a handkerchief in one of his pockets and dried himself up with it.

                “You could at least cut me as much slack as I do you,” Brad started the car’s engine again. 

                “At least when you try to shoot me, I act like I know you mean it,” Schuldig said.

                “You drive me crazy!” Brad hissed. “I miss because I’m too angry to focus!”

                Schuldig sniffled again and smiled a little. 

                “Can we get back to the real problem now?”

                Schuldig heaved a sigh.  “What about this doctor he’s so pissed about?  Let’s go lean on him.”

                Brad thought this over.  “That’s an excellent idea.”

                “I only steal the best ones.  No shoddy, cheap ideas for this telepath.”

                “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

                “Who said it was yours?  It’s not all about you all the time, Crawford.”

                “It is in my little world,” Brad smiled. 

                Schuldig made a mocking grimace and twirled his finger by his ear, rolling his eyes. 


	6. Six

Yohji woke again late afternoon, hungry.  He had forgotten to eat.  A stupid thing to do.  He got up and pulled out some clean clothes.  He made the extra effort to wash and shave, and dragged a brush through his hair.  He’d packed fast, shoving everything in a couple of suitcases.  Suddenly he missed the guys at the flower shop. 

                Well, there was nothing to be done about it now.  Unless he found their files at the clinic as well.  Then, there would be some hell to pay.  Aya alone would be ready to cut everyone involved in half.  And what fine tuning kept Omi from losing it?  There was something really wrong with that kid. 

                He left the car in the lot and found a small noodle shop to have a nice slow meal in, savoring a few beers and side dishes.  He felt better now.  Cleaner, somehow.  Like he was back on his feet after a long illness.  No pretending, no waiting for that next call or Manx to show up with a tape and a file.  He could do as he pleased.  Maybe—he should just walk away.  Take the money he had, get a passport and take off for a while.  There were plenty of places a guy could go. 

                What was the point of trying to figure all this out?  Obviously he was over.  Who ever he was from now on, it probably wasn’t doing him any good to cling to Kudoh Yohji.  What was in it for him?  Revenge?  He didn’t even know what he wanted revenge for.  And how often had he toyed with the idea of just walking away? 

                No, something had to be done.  He knew them by now.  They’d come after him, or lay in wait for him if he got homesick or something.  You could only listen to a foreign language for so long; you either went native or you went home.  He wanted to be able to come home.  Somehow that seemed important to him. 

                He sipped his beer and pushed his bowl away, calling for the bill. 

                As he left the shop, he was careful to scan the area for signs of anything ‘familiar’ looking.  If Kritiker were sending someone after him, they’d be smart enough to use another team, surely.  Spotting nothing, he went on his way, a winding route back to the hotel, for the exercise as well as the precaution.  The headaches had made him stiff and stale adrenaline had set in his system.  He needed to get out and do something, anything to make himself feel like he was inside his own skin again.  If he didn’t know who he was, or what he had been before, he could at least start with the basics. 

               

 

                “By now, all of you are aware that Kudoh has had some issues in the past,” Manx said quietly in the basement room. 

                “Who hasn’t?” Ken said, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.  “It’s about time one of us cracked.”

                “Which is precisely why I want this team to retrieve him,” Manx sounded like she was just keeping her temper in check.  “He may not be making sane decisions right now.  We have reason to believe that someone has altered his perception.”

                “Drugged him somehow?” Omi asked.

                “He was complaining of headaches, disorientation, confusion.  With out a physical determination from a doctor, we can’t know what was causing them.  If it is something physical, an illness, he needs help.  If it’s something else, we may have a breach in security.”

She looked around at each of them.  “Any of you may be next if it’s localized here in the area.  We’ve looked into the report on the Human Chess match.  Takatori’s bodyguards have no licenses, no ID’s, no visas.  They don’t belong here.  Kudoh’s problems began after contact with them.  We know Takatori Masafumi has been experimenting on humans.  We have to find him, bring him back and get him where he can be cared for and treated.”

                “Not killed,” Aya said, a stubborn look on his face. 

                She looked at him.  “If someone has found a way to control him, you may find yourselves fighting Kudoh for your lives.  He’s deadly.  Don’t let that slip your mind.”

                When she was gone, Aya had a small war with himself.  He still hadn’t let himself trust the others, he was still too new on the team.  And there was always one person who reported back to the higher-ups on the others behind their backs.  He was certain it was Omi.  The younger boy handled the data, did the research, he’d be the one most likely to be the group spy.  If he said anything about Koreshigi and the unease he felt about the man, would it change things more?  Had mentioning it upset Yohji enough in his condition to make him paranoid?  He decided to keep his mouth shut and follow orders for a while.  After all, he’d gone AWOL himself, from Crashers, hunting Takatori once he realized the man was alive and gaining ground in politics out in the open.

                “He wouldn’t give up that car,” Ken said.  “We can start with that.”

                “I always wondered why he drove that thing,” Omi said.  “It’s so obvious.  If anyone connected it with him and him with Weiss, they’d track it right to us.”

             “The car would be the first thing he ditched,” Aya said.  “Park it out of sight and let it set for a while.”

                “Oh, right, the Porsche,” Omi realized. 

                “I’ll start with the car storage companies,” Aya got off the sofa and headed up the stairs. 

                “I’ll check his bank account, but I doubt he’d be stupid enough to leave a trail,” Omi sighed, sitting down at the computer. 

                “What do I do?” Ken asked.

                Omi started to say something, then had an evil idea.  “Start checking all the clubs.  If Yohji is in some sort of mental cloud, he might go where he’s comfortable.”  

                Ken pulled a face and started up the stairs.  “He’s going to pay for this,” he complained. 

               

               

                Yohji had gotten bored waiting for the hours to pass.  Then he’d seen a political advertisement on the television in a shop window, flashing a coupled of shots of Takatori and his big plans for Tokyo. 

                He’d stopped short and stared into the glass of the shop.  Takatori.  And where Takatori went, presumably, went his body guards? 

                What good would that do?

                A sudden pain nearly drove him down to his knees.  He put out his hand to brace himself on the glass and wavered, nearly blacking out.  When he was able to pull himself together again, he was aware that some passing guy had caught his arm and helped him to remain upright.  “Are you all right?”

                “Fine,” Yohji said.  “A migraine or something.  Thank you, I’m all right now.”

                The guy had another look at him, then bowed and went on his way. 

                Yohji found a bus bench to sit on and slouched forward, bracing his arms on his knees, taking deep, slow breaths and trying to clear his head of the panic and fear of being exposed and unable to defend himself in this condition. 

                When he was able to think clearly again, he went back to the hotel; to the pills and the bed, setting the alarm to wake himself near midnight.  He couldn’t sleep his life away, but if he was going to get these damned attacks every time he even thought about those guys—he winced, expecting it to happen again—then they were part of this somehow.  Until this was over, he had to be more careful not to expose himself.  And if they were connected, how was he to deal with them if his own mind was attacking him every time he tried to put the pieces together?  How long had he been out after the doctor sedated him?  What had really happened in that time?  

                His mind was too overwhelmed to continue.  He passed out before the pain could get any worse. 

 

 

                “Oh, but we do have an appointment, Sweetheart,” Schuldig reached up to put a hand on the nurse’s forehead and her eyes rolled up in her head as she crumpled to the floor. 

                Brad walked into the doctor’s office and aimed his gun at the man who was sitting behind the desk.  “Koreshigi-sensei, so nice to meet you,” he smiled coldly. 

                “Who are you!  What are you doing here!” the doctor, an almost elderly, and grey haired man said, shocked. 

                “If I had ten yen for every time someone said that…but down to business.  You have records for some people I’m very interested in.  Kudoh Yohji, for starters and then we’ll take

it from there.  Get it now.  If it is on your computer, I want a print out.  If it’s in a file cabinet on the other side of the moon, get it now.  Your life depends on it.”

                The doctor gaped for a moment longer, then sort of attempted to put his hands up in the air.  “I have to get them,” he stuttered. 

                “Tell me what your every move is,” Brad said.  “Move without saying so first and I’ll shoot you somewhere painful.”  Not that he needed it, but he’d learned a long time ago not to show off. 

                “I’m—going to stand up, and—walk to the other room, where the patient records are.” He said.

                “Move then,” Brad said. 

                The doctor got up and walked carefully to the door.  Brad moved aside and turned to keep the gun on his back. 

                Schuldig had propped the nurse-receptionist up on the waiting room sofa, and was going through the desk there.  “Aha, never fails,” he held up a candy bar.  “Always a stash with these office ladies.”  He unwrapped it and had a huge bite.  “Mmm, Meiji.”

                “Watch the door,” Brad said. 

                “I locked it,” he found the remote to the television and turned it on, settling back to flip channels. 

                “Make yourself at home, then,” Brad said sarcastically.   “Move!” he ordered the doctor. 

                Koreshigi lead the way to the small locked room where rolling shelves of patient records were kept.  “I’m going to have to slide this first one aside.” He did so to expose the second and looked for, then pulled out a 2 inch thick metal binder. 

                Brad took it from him before he could get up to anything with it.  “Hidden in plain view.  How entertaining.”

                “Are you going to kill me?” Koreshigi asked.

                “No,” Brad stated.  “I’m going to keep you alive.  Just not very comfortable.  This man has people he works with.  I want their files too.”

                “I have to know their names,”  Koreshigi said, helpless to do anything else.

                “Fujimiya Ran, Tsukiyono Omi  , and Hidaka Ken.”

                The doctor looked.  “I don’t have one on Fujimiya Ran.  I’ll have to move the shelves for the others.” 

                Brad stepped back and aimed the gun in the direction of his legs.  “Find them.”

                The doctor pulled out a much thicker file for Tsukiyono and a thin one on Hidaka and handed them over. 

                “What now?” Schuldig asked, finishing up the candy bar. He’d settled on some sort of entertaining documentary of Hokkaido’s ski resorts. 

                “Nagi does some reading,” Brad said, holding up the file.  “Put the good doctor in the ward with a chunk of memory missing, will you?”

                Schuldig switched off the TV and got up.  “And I was just getting comfortable.”

                “Take it out on him, then,” Brad said. “Just don’t kill him.  We may need to come back and harass him further.”

               

               

                “I don’t even know some of these words,” Nagi said. 

                “Is it the right file?”  Brad asked.

                Nagi skimmed the pages.  “Kudoh Yohji, amnesia, persistent nightmares, guilt syndrome, no wonder he's nuts!” he exclaimed and started reading more thoroughly.

                Farf looked interested, pausing in his fingernail grooming over kill with a combat knife.

                “What is it?” Brad asked.

                Nagi looked up at him.  “This is pure old school Nazi research,” he stated. 

                “Now how would you recognize that?” Schuldig asked.

                “I pay attention in training,” Nagi shut the file.  “How do you think I learned to hack data systems.  If he’s an Esset plant, if he's triggered to revert, we’re screwed.” 

                “Why would they do this?” Schuldig looked at Crawford. 

                “Why do they do anything?  We could be in deep shit for messing up anything they’ve got planned,” Nagi said.

                Brad frowned.  None of this made any sense.  But how often did that happen in this line of work.  “Are you sure?”

                “I’ve seen records on work like this, I’m not completely sure, but it’s too damn close to take a chance.”

                “It could be a coincidence. Helle said Koreshigi was known for working on experimental stuff from the Nazi collaboration.  It might just be an extrapolation of the same material.  That is the more likely scenario.  Esset wouldn’t dare cross it’s paths here, not now.  To many things could go wrong.”

Schuldig shook his head.  “The Doctor is not Esset, or I would have found something.  I caught glimpses of memories, he had access to files left behind unburned when the Americans came. He had copies that were made by another doctor who was one of his teachers.”

                “All right, but we need to keep the line of communication open with Esset, because if we can’t cover our asses, we are so screwed,” Nagi insisted.

                Brad looked at him.  “You’re telling me?” he said dryly.

                “Well pointing out the obvious certainly helps keep me from screaming myself silly in fear.”

                “There’s always a way out,” Brad said.  “He can have a nice little car accident when we’re done with him.”

                “And Virus?” Nagi asked.

                “What can they do?” Brad said.  “We ‘recover him’, add a new member to the team, and move along with the great plan," he said the last sarcastically.  “It’s not my fault they messed up.  After all, they told me to ignore him or kill him.  What ever he’s here for, they’ve washed their hands of it.  That means this guy is written off as well. If he really is still an active  agent of Esset, which I seriously doubt.”

                 “This,” Nagi tapped on the file case, “is rewiring minds without using a telepath,” he warned. 

                “Calm down,” Brad looked at him again.  “Transcribe the parts of Kudoh’s file we need to know now, the rest can wait.” 

                Nagi shut the file and sulked off to his room and slapping the door shut.

                Obviously this was going to take some time.  Brad wondered if he should make coffee or if this was one of those nights he should just force himself to sleep.  “Koreshigi must not have had time to get to Fujimiya.  But why would Kritiker be so insistent on having their agents brainwashed?”

                “Because they could?” Schuldig said.  “They had the means to do so, why not use them?”

                “Mmm,” Brad half agreed.  “Bureaucracy in action.  We’ll know when Nagi is done with that transcript.”

                “Why don’t you brief me on this Sarazawa guy,” Schuldig said.

                Brad looked at him.  He knew that tone of voice.  Just to be stubborn, he said, “No.”

                Ah, sparks flew.  “Why not?”

                “Because I’m not sure he is Sarazawa any more,” Brad said, sitting down on the sofa.  He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes and temples.  “Setting aside everything I know seems to be the best way to proceed with caution.  I will tell you one thing though.”  He looked up.   He didn’t want to do this, he really didn’t, but there was no getting past it. “When he caught you off guard, got that wire around your neck, what distracted you?”

                Schuldig’s eyes flashed fire.  “Just fucking tell me!”

                “No, you need to learn a lesson here,” Brad said calmly.  “Never mind your pride, this is business.”

                “I don’t know, damn it, we were in a crowd, everyone was screaming, I was out of focus, I admit it!”

                “Taking the lesser evil again, Schuldig?” Brad said, mildly amused despite the stress he was under.  Or maybe because of it, things just seemed more amusing.  He loved the way Schuldig looked when he sulked.  He was like fire, flickering in and out of the timeline, out of focus, then brilliantly back, as his mind went through scenarios, almost, but not quite unpredictable. It was part of his charm.

                Schuldig sat down in the arm chair and frowned, then thought back over the situation.  The crazy red head attacked, Brad blocked and tossed him.  The blond had moved into get Fujimiya out, he had moved to shield Brad, and all hell broke lose as people started to panic—what had happened? 

                Brad waited patiently. 

                Schuldig frowned.  “It’s sort of a blur, I can’t put my finger on it.  He just—didn’t seem to be a threat until it was too late.” He frowned again.

                “Even though you had seen him earlier with Fujimiya and knew him to be a threat,” Brad prompted.  “You must have read his mind at that point?”

                “No, I didn’t,” Schuldig admitted.  

                “And can you tell me why?” Brad asked.

                Schuldig glared at him.  “No, you tell me,” he insisted.

                “He gave you a smile and projected an aura of complete harmlessness, didn’t he?  Hell, for a minute there you even thought he was on your side, that he wanted to see Fujimiya go down, was happy to see it.”

                “I told you, I didn’t read his mind!”

                “Like hell you didn’t.  He fooled you, and you don’t want to admit it.”    

                “If you’re so smart, you should have said something before!”

                Brad shook his head.  “I thought he was dead, and had been for two years.  I was still negotiating my way around that shock, my own unwillingness to believe.”  He frowned at himself now.  His self taught immunity had worn off over those years.

                “He’s one of us,” Schuldig stated.

                “Exactly,” Brad said.  “Not only of Esset, but instinctually, ‘one of us’ to all comers.  Somehow, Sarazawa’s genetics ramped that bizarre little quirk up.  What ever it is about him, he’s perfect.  Even if you know he’s not on your side, you want him to be.  Call it charisma, seduction, what ever words you can come up for it, but instinctually, he can slip under that self preservation radar.”

                “Listen to you,” Schuldig said quietly.  “He got you too, didn’t he?”

                Brad felt a heat rise through him.  How the hell had he let that slip!  No, Schuldig wasn’t focused on him, wouldn’t be for another few seconds, he had to move, before he looked up and saw it.

                “No wonder Esset wants him out of the picture.  He’s probably no where near as easy to control...”

                Brad got up and headed for the suite's kitchenette.  He wanted coffee after all.  He forced himself to breath, to calm down, to drain the red from his face.  Damn it!  

                Schuldig followed him.  “But, Brad, do we want him?” 

                “Separating the talent from the person, yes,” Brad stated.  “Farfarello is good but we can’t always keep an eye on him when we’re in the middle of something.  Sarazawa has more field and tactical experience.  Computers, chemicals, explosives, he has all the training, plus the muscle.”

                “And the whole cutting my head off thing?”

                “Would you be so angry at him if you didn’t feel utterly betrayed about that incident?” Brad asked, focused on putting the right amount of cream and sugar in Schuldig’s mug.

                “All right, I can see it now, and I admit it,” Schuldig stated.  “It doesn’t mean I have to accept or like it.  It's very creepy," he frowned.

                “Even if he hadn’t gone AWOL on Weiss, we couldn’t exactly leave him there,” Brad took the precaution of rinsing his face off in cold water again while the coffee finished brewing. 

                “It seems to me that if you know this guy so well, even with his brain being messed with to the point where he doesn’t know his own name, you’d be able to find him.” Schuldig said. 

                Brad wiped his face dry with a paper towel and tossed it in the trash, looking at him as he put his glasses back on.  He pushed his damp hair back with a rake of his fingers. “If he’s confused, suffering backlash headaches, and killing Kritiker agents, I have no idea of what he’s up to.  It’s not like him to burn to bridges and still hang around.  I want what’s in that report first.  I want to be able to find a way around what Koreshigi has done to him.  And how he ended up in Tokyo in the first place is still a mystery.”

                Schuldig poured his own coffee first.  “Well, I don’t like him,” he told Brad to his face.  “Supernatural charisma or not.”

                Brad caught him and pulled him close, holding him, as much to comfort himself as to reassure the telepath. 

                What was he going to do? 


	7. Seven

Yohji closed the delivery entrance door he’d picked the lock on quietly behind him and eased into the hall way.  He froze, hearing a noise.  He expected someone to be on duty in the ward, but that was upstairs.  Was there a security guard he hadn’t noticed?  No…he moved into the lobby and looked around the waiting room.  There was a light coming from the small side window by a door.  He padded over to it and flattened to the wall beside the window, then carefully looked in.

                Koreshigi was sitting at his desk.  Yohji frowned. 

Okay, so change of plans.  He reached for the handle and opened the door, slipping in. 

                Koreshigi looked up, startled.  “Why are you here?”

                “A patient has a right to see his record,” Yohji said.  “Where is it, Doc?”

                “You’re not a well man, Kudoh,” the doctor said.  “Attacking the nurse and running away like that.”

                “I could attack you, too, Doc,” Yohji reminded him.  “I want the records.  I want to know what you’ve been doing to me.”

                “Listen to yourself.  You’re completely paranoid.  We’re here to help you. You came here for help.  Let us help you.”

                “No offense, but if I were completely paranoid, wouldn’t I be holed up in a room somewhere with a tinfoil hat on?” Yohji snorted.  “Not happening, Doc.  You get that record out for me.  We’re going to discus my case, in detail.”

                Koreshigi looked confused for a moment, then got up and started for the door.  “I’m going to get your file.”

                “Don’t try anything, either.  I know you work for Kritiker, I know that’s why I was sent to you,” Yohji said.  “What I want to know is why you’re fucking with my head.”

                “You were brought in with amnesia,” Koreshigi said.   “They asked me to find a way to cure you.  I wasn’t able to restore your memories.  What ever else has happened, I had no part in it.” He unlocked the file room.  “They’re in here.”

                Yohji pushed him aside and went through the shelves himself.  There was a space where his file would be.  He frowned.  Then he tried Fujimiya.  Nothing.  Not even a space, the numbers in order.  Hidaka, Tsukiyono, empty spaces there in the shelving.  The file numbers confirmed it.  Everyone of the files had a consecutive number, appended to fit into the system as more were added.  “It’s not here,” he turned on the doctor, grabbing him and slamming him up against the wall.  “None of them are.  What did you do with them?” He demanded.

                “They have to be there!”  the doctor squirmed. “Please, I saw them earlier—I—,” he stopped. 

                Yohji watched his face go blank. 

                “What?” he asked. 

                “That’s odd, I…,” the doctor put a hand to his head.  “I don’t seem to remember where I put them.  I pulled them earlier…”

                Yohji let him go.  “Someone’s been here, haven’t they?” he said, going on instinct.

                “I don’t know what you mean.  I must have just misplaced them,” the doctor said.  “I have to find them!” he started looking through the files, pulling out cases and throwing them on the floor.  “They have to be here!  They’ll kill me!”

                Yohji left him to it.  He had a pretty good idea of what had happened here.  Someone had given the doctor a dose of his own medicine.

  He left the way he had come. 

He knew exactly where he had to go now.  He’d taken so many pain killers, pain was just an irritation.  He wasn’t going to let this just drop because of a conditioned response or some creepy programming.  If there was any way this was going to stop, it would be when he had answers.

 

 

Brad fished around for his gun, intending to shoot the ringing phone.  It wasn’t under his pillow.  Now where the hell?  Oh, yeah, he’d left it in the holster on the chair.  Damn it.  He reached over and picked up the phone.  “Crawford.”

“Crawford, get your ass over here now!  I pay you people to do a job!”

“Ohaiyo, Mr. Takatori,” Brad squinted at the clock.  What the fuck, 3 am?  “Could you be so kind as to tell me where ‘here’ is?”

                “My estate, you fool!  You and your men get here now.”

                Brad had a flash of what was going to happen in the next hour and slammed down the phone, throwing his legs out of the bed clothes.  “Schuldig!  Wake up, we have to go.”

                “Why?  Is Godzilla attacking?” Schuldig said still three quarters asleep.

                “Better.  Sarazawa’s got Takatori, and he’s demanding our presence,” Brad shucked his pajamas and yanked open the closet, grabbing a suit.  Not a white one this time.  “Hurry up.”

                “But I just got to sleep two hours ago.  This isn’t fair,” Schuldig got out of bed. 

                “Life is rough, get over it,” Brad stated, pulling on a shirt. 

                “I warn you, I’m going to be cranky all day because of this,” Schuldig found his two day old blue jeans and pulled them on along with a visual kei band t-shirt that had seen better days.

                Brad was going to say something about his choice of clothing but he had a feeling that by the end of this, it wasn’t going to matter what Takatori complained about.  He had to salvage this somehow and still manage to get Sarazawa, or Kudoh, or whoever he thought he was, calmed down!  “Just hurry up and get to the car.  And don’t forget your gun.”

                “I think it’s still in the back seat,” Schuldig pushed his hair back and found his loafers, one under the bed, one half across the room. 

                “You’re an idiot,” Brad said, shoving his green jacket at him. 

                “Yes, I am.” Schuldig took the garment and struggled with getting an arm into the sleeve.  “A smart person would have kept the gun close and shot the phone.”

                Brad turned to glare at him. 

                Shuldig was blurry eyed and fumbling with the other sleeve, completely clueless to what he had picked up on. 

                Brad grabbed his own shoes and sat down to put them on.  

                                 

 

                Yohji kept the gun on Takatori.  “Can they get in here without out anyone having to open a door for them.”

                “Crawford has a key and the code,” Takatori was seated in an arm chair beside the table with the phone on it.  Yohji had kept him away from his desk, where there was a panic button and a gun in a drawer. 

                Crawford.  The throbbing in his head was having a party with that.  He ignored it, hoping that the pills wouldn’t wear off in the middle of this.  “Then I don’t need you conscious any more, now do I?” Yohji stepped quickly over and slammed the butt of his gun across the back of Takatori’s head.  The stocky man slumped, out cold.  Yohji checked his pulse. Good enough for now.  He didn’t want to take a chance on sitting down himself, no matter how he felt like all he wanted to do was sleep.  He paced the floor, looking around the huge opulent room.  Ripping off the peasants and farming out lucrative contracts to your pals must pay big in politics, he thought sarcastically

                He wondered how long he was going to have to wait. 

 

 

                “Why are there no Starbuck’s open at this time of the morning?” Schuldig asked  “I know damned well there are graveyard shifts in this country.”

                “Stop whining,” Brad said.

                “I want to go back to sleeeep!” Schuldig whined anyway.  “This better be worth it.”

                “I need you to make Takatori and anyone else involved in this forget that any of it has happened, other wise, believe me, I’d have left you asleep.” Brad growled. 

                “Well,” Schuldig rubbed an eye, “Now you can introduce me to your ex-girlfriend properly.”

                “That isn’t funny!” Brad roared at him.

                “Whoah, now I’m awake,” Schuldig’s ears were ringing. 

                 Brad forced himself to un-grip the steering wheel before he broke it.  “Good, now shut up.”

                “Yahwol, mein—,” Schuldig shut up. 

               

 

                “Oh for shit sake,” Brad whispered outside the heavy wooden door to Takatori’s office.  “He’s hiding in a damned drape.” He knocked again.  “Mr. Takatori, are you in there?” 

                There was a muffled sound of assent.

                Brad rolled his eyes.  “Oh very nice.”

             “He should be killed for just that.” Schuldig whispered.  “He’s got that wire thing aimed at the door.”

                “Lock up his brain the second we get in there,” Brad stated.  He reached for the handle and opened the door.  “Mr. Takatori?”

                He ducked right suddenly, and the small lead weight of the wire hit the door frame and fell away.

                Schuldig shoved him aside and moved forward, using his talent almost to it’s fullest. 

 

 

                Yohji felt everything tilt sideways and spin as his mind was thrown off balance.  He fell, unable to tell up from down.  Nothing worked, his body was gone, leaving only his head laying on the floor near it.

                “How do you like the feeling?” Schuldig leaned over him and reached down to slip the watch off his wrist, unbuckling it and throwing it aside with it’s deadly fish line of razor wire. 

                “You,” Yohji hissed.

                “He’s all yours,” Schuldig said, stepping aside.

                Crawford bent, looking down at him.  "Hello, Sarazawa."

                Yohji felt the pain shoot through his mind like an ice cold spike and blacked out.

 

 

                “What did you do to him?” Brad demanded.

                Schuldig was holding his own head.  “Damn it, that hurt!” he exclaimed.  “I didn’t do anything, it’s the programming.  He nearly took me down with him!”

                “Did you find out what caused it?”

                “Something about names, your name, his, he doesn’t remember.  Fuck!” He winced. 

                “Get to work on Takatori,” Brad bent down further to grab Kudoh’s arm and haul him up into a fireman’s lift.  “He had a good night’s sleep, some strange dreams, what ever, but make him forget all of this.”

                “Heh, I’ll give him dreams,” Schuldig said, still hurting from what felt like an instant migraine.   

                “Not those kind of dreams, Schuldig,” Brad warned.  “I don’t want to have to explain to Esset that we lost the contract because of accute homophobia.” He shifted the unconscious man to a better balance.  “I’m taking him down to the car.”

 

               

                He wasn’t sure this was a good idea at all, now.  He settled Yuuji into the back seat and took the precaution of using plastic strap cuffs on him. 

                It was so damned tempting.  He caressed the man’s cheek, eyes roving over the familiar features.  “What ever they’ve done to you, we’ll undo it,” he said softly.  Then he forced himself to back off.  He had no right to claim anything from Yuuji now, not when he had moved on.  As much as he wanted to, he had to let it go, drop it now, before he ruined everything he had worked for. 

                Schuldig came down to the car a few minutes later to find him brooding in the front seat.  “Still out cold?”

                “Obviously,” Brad said. 

                Schuldig dropped a bundle wrapped in a handkerchief on the seat between them and got in. “Be careful of that.  I didn’t think it would be such a great idea to leave it behind.”

 

               

                Nagi had the file on the table.  Kudoh was tied to a chair and neatly trussed up in Farfarello’s spare straight jacket. 

                Brad waved an ammonia capsule from the emergency kit under the man’s nose.

                Yohji started to choke and came around, coughing. 

                Brad gave him a swallow of water from a paper cup, tipping his head up and placing it to his lips so he could drink, and then backed off to let him recover.

                Yohji shook his head and looked up at them.  He wasn’t happy to be there, but he wasn’t saying anything either. 

                “Nagi,” Brad said.

                Nagi started reading from the file in Japanese.  “Patient was found to have amnesia, remembering nothing beyond the point of insisting that he had seen a woman gunned down. Patient had sustained head injuries, lacerations, bruising, evidence of recent stitches, possible mild concussion, that appeared to be healing, estimated no more than three weeks old.  Bruises and new lacerations over old injuries, also estimated to be no more than three weeks old.  No ID found on patient; identifying marks, one tattoo on the left upper arm, as photographed. It then goes into race, height, weight and all that crap," he shut the file and looked at the man in the chair. 

                “You’ve been having severe head pain,” Brad said.   “What triggered it?  Are you remembering who you are?”

                “Who are you?” Yohji finally said.  “What do you know about this?”

                “Are you in pain now?”

                Yohji shut up again.

                Brad drew a chair over and sat down in front of Yohji.  “Do you want to know who you are?”

                Yohji started to say he knew who he was but he stopped, realizing that would be a joke.  “What have you bastards got to do with this?”

                Brad sighed and pushed his glasses up, making up his mind. “Schuldig, if he goes into some sort of spasm, shut him down.  Gently,” he added.  Then he reached over and laid a hand on Kudoh’s knee, looking him in the eyes.  “Sarazawa Yuuji,” he said softly.  “Code name Virus.  There was an explosion, somewhere in the middle east. Miss-wired explosives, detonating too early.  But how did you end up in Tokyo?”

                Yohji felt his mind shatter like a broken shop window, stabbing shards everywhere, facets of memory piling back in on him, torturing him. 

                “Yuuji,” Brad said.  “Do you know your name. Yuuji.”

                “He’s freaking,” Schuldig said.

                “Not yet!” Brad ordered. “How did you get to Tokyo after the explosion!”

                The pain tore his mind apart.  He screamed in agony.

                “Well, there go the neighbors complaining again,” Nagi said, wincing at the noise. 

                Sarazawa slumped in the chair.

                “I had to,” Schuldig was wavering on his feet, holding his own head.  “It was incredible.  I don’t know what they did to cause that kind of pain, but it’s beyond belief.”

 

 

               This time he woke up laying on a bed.  He felt like he’d been gone over with street paving equipment.  Someone was wiping his forehead and temples with a  cool, damp cloth.  He opened his eyes. 

                Brad set the cloth in the bowl on the bedside table and sat back, looking at him.  “How do you feel?” he asked in German.

             Yuuji focused on the ceiling, thinking. “Like I tried to stop a bullet train with my skull.  At least twice.”

                 “Other than that?”

                Green eyes met his, searching them, his face.  “—Brad?  It is you. I’m not nuts.  What’s with the white suit?  Holy shit, am I dead?”

                “You were, for almost three years.” Brad said.  “How’s the amnesia?”

                “Amnesia?” he tried to sit up, but the room wobbled a bit and he laid back again without quarreling with it.  He looked around the room and then at Brad again.  “Oh, wow,” he said, realizing all of it now.  “Was I out of it that long?”

                “Is it coming back?”

                “Wow,” Yuuji said again, unable to believe what his mind was telling him.  “We were supposed to meet up…right after the Tokyo job…” he looked at the window, saw the skyscrapers outside.  “Where are we?”

                “Tokyo,” Brad said.  “You might be a confused for quite a while.  You’ve been someone else all that time.”

               “I was—,” Yuuji sat up this time, carefully, sliding his long legs off the bed and his feet onto the floor.  “I came to in a hospital, I remember that.  They thought I was a victim of the blast.  Well—I was, in a way.” He looked around the room, at a loss for bearings.  “I had a ticket to Tokyo in my jacket, and I’m mostly Japanese.  I went to the Japanese embassy and they sent me here on a provisionary visa.  I came here—to find out who I was.”  He looked at Brad. “That file—someone was fucking with my head.”

                “I think we’ll worry about that later,” Brad said.  “Esset has disowned you.  I told them you were alive, that I had found you, but they said you were off the books.”

                “They owe me a fucking pay check,” Yuuji stated.

                Brad couldn’t help smiling.  “Hello, you’re back.” 

                “Almost three years,” Yuuji reached to take him by the wrist, then pulled him close.

                Brad tried not to let it happen, but he couldn’t stop himself.  He broke off the kiss and put his arms around him with a shuddering sigh of relief, holding him tightly.

                “I’m sorry,” Yuuji said softly in his ear.

                “You’re sorry?  You didn’t blow yourself up.”

                “I sort of did.  Letting those idiots set things up ahead of time.  What are you doing here?  Working for that jerk Takatori?”

                “You can remember that?” Brad pulled back and looked at him.

                “I can piece together some of it,” he said. “It’s really confusing, though.  You look good, good as always.” He caressed Brad’s cheek.  “I think I really missed you.”

                Brad caught his hand and drew it down, trying to think of how to tell him.  He supposed the best way was just to tell him.  “Yuuji, remember, it’s been almost three years.  I thought you were dead.  I grieved. I got over it.  I’m sorry,” he said softly.  “I…”

                “Well guess what?  I’m back,” Yuuji stated.  “Send flowers, hand back the ring, cancel the joint account, whatever; it’s over, tough luck.”

                “This isn’t going well,” Brad said.  “Try to understand…”

                “Don’t give me crap, Brad.  You’re the one who said never get too involved, no commitments, keep things simple.  Don’t tell me now you’ve changed your mind and gotten serious with someone, because I don’t feel too sane right now and if the one thing in my life I could count on not changing has changed, I’m going to start yanking on that chain you’ve got tied around that thing you call a heart,” he poked Brad in the chest.  “I want my life back, I want my money, and I want you back.  So who ever is standing in the way can just step aside.” 

                Brad caught his hand again in both of his, held it, then set it back in Yuuji’s lap and let go, pushing the chair back and stepping away.  “Calm down a little,” he said.  “You’re still confused, okay?  Just—calm down.”

                “I’ve been dead, I’ve been living someone else’s life for three years, doing god knows what, and you’re telling me to calm down.  I think I’m entitled to have some kind of freaking fit!  Who is it, Brad?” he got up, looking around.  “What the hell have I got for clothes?”  he was in a cotton vest and underwear. 

                “I threw out the ones you had on,” Brad said, trying to stay cool.  “We weren’t sure how long you would be unconscious, or even if you would recover.”

                “If you call recovering from having the galactic hive mother of all migraines, I don’t think I have, but damn it, you could be a little more considerate.” He started at him, reaching for him again.  “Come on, Brad.  Don’t fucking abandon me like this,” he said in a coaxing tone.

                Brad held up a hand.  “Just stop,” he said.  “You’re confused, your movements are off, and you are so not using your talent on me.  Now calm down.  Just stop right where you are and calm down.”

                Yuuji stopped, letting his arms fall to his sides with a frustrated sigh, not happy with Brad. 

                “That was really lame, by the way.”

                Yuuji wiggled a finger in his ear and pushed his hair back.  “I’m off my game, what do you expect?”

                “I don’t know, a little common sense?”

                “Key word here is confusion,” Yuuji reminded him. 

                “And that?” Brad pointed down.

                “Can’t I just be happy to see you?” Yuuji grinned.

                “Right,” Brad said.  “Do you feel up to a shower?”  Ah, wrong choice of words.  Too late now. 

                “I could use one, yeah,” the smile changed to predatory. 

                “No, I’m not getting in with you.  Just—get a shower, and I’ll loan you some of my things for now.”

                “My car—I left it somewhere, crap, I know it’s—anyway, my clothes are in it.  No—a hotel.” Yuuji rubbed the back of his neck, trying to sort everything out.  “Flower shop?” he was puzzled. 

                “Shower,” Brad said. 

                Yuuji walked up to him, real close, within  breathing distance.  Brad knew he should back off, step aside, avoid this at all costs.  Yuuji looked into his eyes.  “I caught you fair and square, Crawford,” he murmured.  “You’re not getting off the hook.  Even if it has been three years.”

                “Two years, seven months,” Brad corrected.

                “That’s a long time to go without a good fuck,” Yuuji informed him, then backed up and walked to the door.  “Where the hell is this shower?”

                “First door, on the left.”

                               

               

                Schuldig was doing the not happy again.  “So, sleeping beauty is awake.  Now what?” He sat at the little table, a cup of coffee in front of him. 

                Brad knew he had no hope of avoiding it any more.  He sat down and reached over to put a hand on Schuldig’s gently.  “You have to keep in mind that he’s lost a lot of time.  Years.  He hasn’t gotten things in perspective yet—probably won’t for a while….”

                “So I’m supposed to be nice to your walking dead boyfriend, is that it?” Schuldig stated.

                Was it really that obvious? 

Brad was so mad at himself he couldn’t stand it.  “Try to understand.”

                “Nope, don’t think that’s going to happen, not ever,” Schuldig snatched his hand away.

                “I thought he was dead,” Brad insisted quietly.  “And who seduced who here?”  He caught the other hand and pulled it close, holding it in his, and regretting how much it had reminded him of other things when he’d held Yuuji’s the same way.  “I didn’t mislead you, I didn’t cheat on him, he was dead.  There was no one else.  Babe, don’t do this.”

                Schuldig glared at him.  “You’d drop me in a minute if I wasn’t a telepath.”

               “And since you’re not losing your talents any time soon, how does that even come into it?” Brad said.  “You’re a telepath and hotter than hell, so what exactly is your point?”

                “Who is more valuable to you?” Schuldig tried to pull his hand free.

                Brad nailed it to the table with his muscles.  “Now, you are using that head of yours.  Who do you think?”

                Schuldig frowned.  “I think at some point you’re going to stop playing games with yourself.”

                “You need to stop playing games with me,” Brad said angrily.  “We have a contract, you and I.  Stop looking for loopholes you’re afraid I’ll slip out of!  I wouldn’t have agreed to this if it wasn’t to my advantage and I wasn’t comfortable with it.  You’re an idiot if you think I’m going to risk anything that’s going to ruin my plans, and they will always include you.  Stop it!”

                Schuldig lowered his eyes.  He took a few breaths and pulled himself together.  “So—what is the plan now?”

                “He’s still confused, but we have Takatori to deal with and I want to know what Kritiker plans on doing about this.” Brad loosened his hold on Schuldig’s hand, realizing he must have been hurting him.  “Nagi can mind Sarazawa, the man does have some morals and anything else he might pull, Nagi can handle.  And he can go over the records with him.  I want an iron clad report to hand to the elders.  If we throw this information at them, they might back off a little and keep thinking we’re good little soldiers wagging our tails.”


	8. Eight

“So, your code name is ’Virus’,” Nagi said.

                They’d made themselves comfortable in the main room of the suite, on the two sofas by the picture window view of the city.  Nagi had Kudoh Yohji’s file open, but the other two sat on the coffee table between them.

                “Yeah,” Yuuji said.  “Or it was.” He dug his fingers into his hair, thinking. “So many  things are all messed up.  I can’t tell which parts of ‘me’ are real.”

                “Talk to  me, sort things out into categories.  Why the code name ‘Virus’?” Nagi persisted calmly.

                Yuuji inhaled deep and exhaled slowly, making himself calm down, trying to remember his training.  “I’m a level three talent.  Influence, mild hypnotism, body chemistry. My main procedure is to infiltrate, assimilate, and control. Damn it, one minute I want a cigarette and a drink, the next I want to strangle someone.  Why has Brad got a kid working on me?”

                “If it gives you any clue, my code name is ‘Prodigy’.” Nagi didn’t like being called ‘a kid’ in that tone of voice.   Brad had instructed him to just keep the man talking, make him think, make him orient himself.  That, and don’t let him out of the suite.  “Don’t think of me as a kid.  More like much younger than you.” Nagi smiled viciously. 

                “You’ve been hanging around Brad,” Yuuji said dryly.  He shifted gears, settling back, crossing a leg over his knee and sprawling out on the sofa.  “How long have you known him?”

                “Don’t even start with  me.  What do you remember about the events leading up to your accident and amnesia?”

                Yohji wanted a cigarette, badly.  Yuuji wanted to kick off that assumed persona so bad he could have strangled himself.  “Bits and pieces are coming back to me, but every time I try to put the puzzle together, I get these lightening strikes of pain right through the frontal lobes.  We should grab that doctor.”

                “Schuldig wiped him in a hurry, that might be a problem,” Nagi paged through the file using post-it-note tabs he had tacked onto certain sections.  “He’s kept a lot of what he was doing hidden in the wording of the file.  Crawford wants to leave the Doctor in place, to confuse Kritiker.”

                “An intact web catches more flies,” Yuuji said, remembering something distinctly.  “Leave everything in place and you can pick and chose your corpses.”

                “Speaking of, you left one.  Birman?” Nagi looked at him.  “Was there something behind that relating to your conditioning?”

                “Yeah, I wanted to kill her,” Yuuji said, wanting a cigarette so badly now he was starting to shake.  “Damn it, I’m withdrawing from the nicotine.  How many packs a day was I smoking?”

                “Check your fingers,” Nagi said, looking over the file again.  “I can swipe a pack of Schuldig’s nicotine gum if you like, but you’re going to be sorry when he finds out.”

                Yuuji looked at the yellow stains on his nails.  “Ouch.”

                “Koreshigi has tied the conditioning to so many things, it’s like he was having fun with a new toy.  The name and code name you were given, the names of your team mates, the smoking,” Nagi looked at him.  “Our own observations up till now are that Kudoh Yohji, Code named Balinese, is a heavy smoking, heavy drinking, womanizing, self absorbed mercenary; projecting his own self perception of weakness and seeking redemption.”

                “Isn’t that a contradiction?”

                “You’re nuts, go figure.  You're lucky to be in the physical shape you are,” Nagi said.  “Does the use of the other names trigger anything?”

                “A craving for cigarettes,” Yuuji said, getting up and stuffing his hands in the pockets of the loose jeans he was stuck with, pacing the floor.  “Where are the others?”

                “Farfarello is ‘meditating’, Brad and Schuldig are working, if you can call it that.” Nagi was still skimming the report for items of interest. 

                “What do you call it?”

                “Putting up with Takatori’s shit,” Nagi looked up at him.  “You’re a champion gymnast, try to remember that when you’re craving smoke.”

                Yuuji frowned.  “I better not have lung cancer.”

                “Why did you want to kill Birman?” 

                Yuuji frowned, his arms dropping limp at his sides as he looked out the window. “It’s all her fault,” he said.  “This started with her.  Kudoh Yohji started with her.”  He walked over and sat down again, his head in his hands.  “She came to the hospital they put me in for the amnesia when I got here, told me they knew who I was, why I had no ID.”

                Nagi looked at him.  “And then?”

                Yuuji felt him self slipping as his personas jumbled together in his head. 

                “Sarazawa-san.  Yuuji,” Nagi said firmly, bringing him back.

                He sat back, looking at the ceiling.  “I’m a mess.”

                “But you’re starting to sort and organize your memories into sections again.  If we persist, if we go slow and steady, you might be able to avoid having Schuldig get in there.”

                “What level is he?” Yuuji asked suddenly.

                Nagi felt an uncomfortable lack of reticence, and bit his tongue before he could answer. Brad had said to trust this man as far as possible without getting damaged himself if something happened.  But his own habitual instinct was to trust no one outside their little circle.  How had this man ended up here, concealed from Brad by a false reported death?  “You’re the one being de-briefed here.”

                Yuuji frowned slightly.  “You don’t trust me.”

                “I don’t trust anyone, and you’re a time bomb to both sides right now.”

                “Then why not let the telepath work on me?” Yuuji said.  “He’s either a low level, or it’s personal.  And I’m betting it’s personal.”

                “You did try to slice his head off with a razor wire,” Nagi said.

                “And you stopped me. Telekinetic?”

                “Yes,” Nagi wasn’t going to tell him the whole of it. 

                “Except at the time, I had no idea we were supposed to be on the same side,” Yuuji pointed out.  “I take it Brad hasn’t explained me to him.”

                Nagi frowned.  “He explained you to all three of us,” he stated.

                Yuuji smiled wryly and pushed his hair back behind an ear.  “Right.  Okay, since I can’t smoke, what about coffee?  I need something to over stimulate my already over stimulated system.”

                “Help yourself,” Nagi said. 

                Yuuji got up, pushed the sleeves of the borrowed charcoal grey pullover up his arms and walked over to the kitchenette.  He opened the cupboards and looked around.  The kid had made breakfast for him when he’d finally woke up, but he hadn’t paid much attention.  He grabbed a plain black mug out of a set, arching an eyebrow at the one with the yellow happy face with a blood dripping bullet hole in it’s forehead, and the one that had ‘Because I said so.’ printed on it.  The coffee canister was in the small refrigerator; the filters in a tin next to the machine.   

                The small domestic task hit him with a moment of nostalgia.  Who’s turn was it to water the plants?  To check supplies and stock?  Tease Aya?  He almost wanted to call and see how things were going.  A ridiculous thought, but still…. “You want a cup?” he asked.

                “No, thank you,” Nagi said.

                He turned and leaned back on the counter while he waited for the coffee to brew.  “I used to be able to drop scams the minute the job was done.  Now I feel like I should go home or something and explain to the guys, to Weiss, what happened.  What ever that doctor did to me…,” he let it drop in frustration.

                “Length of the ‘job’ maybe,” Nagi said.  “Why did Birman recruit you?”

                “I have no idea.  Maybe I fit the profile or something.  I noticed they always did pick people who’d been done over by fate pretty badly.  Check the files.  Omi’s an amnesia victim too, kidnapped and dumped when he wasn’t ransomed.  Ken was drummed out of the J-League on drug charges, framed when he was the top of the game.  Although I don’t know what the hell made that so traumatic.  Aya—well—Aya’s a fucking train wreck.  He won’t talk about it, and there’s no file, so what can I say.  I’ve met other agents with the same stories.  Whole families murdered, bombings, arson, anyone who gets in the way of anyone connected with Takatori, and then, then, I find out I’m on the side of the people causing all this shit!” Yuuji looked at him, fighting the revulsion of the alter-ego imposed on him. 

                “No one is on Takatori’s side,” Nagi said.  “And if you know Brad so well, you’ll know who’s side he’s on.”

                Yuuji looked at him steadily for a minute, then turned to pour the coffee. “Esset’s disowned me,” he said softly, remembering now what Brad had been telling him.

                “It would be a good idea for you to decide who’s side you’re on,” Nagi shut the file and tossed it down on the others.    

                He sipped the coffee, looking at the wall behind the little sink area.  “You’re prepared to kill me.”

                “Naturally,” Nagi said.  “But if you’re planning suicide, I’m under orders to put you back into the straight jacket, and Farfarello doesn't like to share."

                Yuuji closed his eyes and counted to ten, then turned around and looked at him. 

“It’s easier to throw off the old assignment when there’s a new one on the board,” he drank more coffee.  “Brad went against orders to pull me out of Weiss just when I was starting to crack.  I want to know what now.  I want this Kudoh guy out of my head and his crappy addictions off my back.”

                “Until Brad gets back, you’re stuck with de-briefing,” Nagi said.  “How much do you know about Kritiker?  Put it in report format.”

                Yuuji rolled his eyes and sat down again, and started at the beginning as he knew it.

               

               

                This sucked.  The meetings were always boring; Takatori browbeating people into giving him as much as he could get, and people sweating up a storm, unable to deal with his very rude arguments.  If they didn’t give in, he’d set them up and black mail them.  Human chess, un-donatated organs, hunting little kids, sex slaves; everyone had a weakness.  Takatori found it out and exploited it. 

                There wasn’t an ounce of class to the asshole, but he had to keep him alive until the ceremony.  No matter how much he wanted to kill him himself. 

                There were more important things to worry about, he chided himself.  His feelings for Yuuji were coming back full force, despite his feelings for Schuldig.  Maybe it was his recovered talent making it difficult, allowing him to dip into the timeline and see things, feel things so vividly. The future with Schuldig, the future with Yuuji, the fights coming his way either way.  He’d have to kill one or the other of them eventually, whether prompted by them or when he lost his own temper big time.  Why did life have to be so damned complicated.  When was it going to stop throwing shit at him? 

                He must be ‘making static’ again, because Schuldig was giving him that sidelong look that said, ‘you’re thinking too loud, but I can’t hear you and it’s pissing me off’.  He kept his thoughts to himself.  One of the great things about being a precog was that he could hide his own mind behind a plethora of things that might be thought, had been thought, were never yet thought; a grey zone of static like an old tv out of tune, he’d been told.  Too bad it also made him a challenge, and therefore irresistible, to telepaths. 

                He might have had half a chance in hell of working something out on the side. 

                He could tell Yuuji flat out no, kick him to the kerb and move on.  Normally, Yuuji might be able to accept that, but in the confused state of mind he was in now?  He could risk getting murdered and dump Schuldig, but that would never work….  He could—and this was the stupid thing—put Yuuji back where he’d found him, with help from Schuldig.  How heartless was he?  He frowned.  Never heartless enough.  It would be the same as killing Yuuji all over again, only to be haunted by his murderous dopleganger. 

                Work out something on the side anyway?  No way in hell would he survive that. 

                /Schuldig/

                /Jah?/

                /I want you to actually use your own brain for a change.  If you were really in my shoes, how would you deal with it?/

                Schuldig flat out turned and stared at him in shock.

                /It’s tearing me right down the middle./ Brad realized his was clenching his jaw again and forced himself to knock it off before he cracked a molar or something.  /What in hell would you do?/  And then he threw it all at the telepath.  All the dispair, all the memories, the emotions, the torment. 

               Schuldig looked away and the mind link was gone.  The distress he was in was evident, if only to Brad, who knew him well enough to see it behind the mask. 

                Misery loves company, Brad thought.   He then cheered himself up by checking what would happen if anyone in the room decided to just kill Takatori for his insolence and impossitions.  The Japanese were such a creative people.


	9. Nine

“There aren’t even words for how much I want to just mangle you!” Schuldig said in the elevator when they were ‘released’ for the evening.

                “And what good would that do?”  Brad asked calmly.  “You wanted to know what I was thinking, I told you.”

                That was the unfair part about it.  Everything with this man was twisted.  Everything was his way or the highway, and the shittiest thing about was that he was right.  Always, always right!  Schuldig punched the wall, the metal rang and his fist hurt.  “And I suppose you didn’t see that coming!” he accused, holding his aching hand.

                “You really should pay attention yourself to what you’re about to do.  It would save you a lot of trouble.”

                “I suppose you're happy now!”

                “No,” Brad said.  “I’m not.  I want to go home.  I want a shower and I want a good meal.  I want some peace and quiet, and more than anything, I want to wake up tomorrow, get on a plane, go anywhere I want to in the world and just sit for a while and not be ordered around or dragged into things I don’t want to be dragged into, but that’s not going to happen, now is it?”

                 The elevator stopped and they got out.  Schuldig ‘remembered’ Brad’s plans for the weekend with Sarazawa in Baden Baden, Germany.  Just a sweet little taste of freedom.  Time with the one person who had always made him feel like freedom was worth the effort of fighting back.  Personally, Schuldig hated Sarazawa, but with Brad’s memories, he started thinking about what he’d seen in 'Kudoh’s' mind before all this.  The longing for something to be the way it was, the way it should be, the way out of the nightmare.  “All this time, you’ve just been using me.”

                “You’re very useful,” Brad agreed.  “I wouldn’t be where I am without you.”

                “Stop twisting things!” Schuldig’s voice echoed in the parking garage they had entered. 

                “No, you twist things.  You want to be romantic, you want this all to mean so much more than it does.  But what you mean to me and what he meant to me were the same thing.  Comfort.  Security.  Somewhere I belonged, somewhere I felt right, that made me confident.   Everything else is just a matter of decore.  Red headed telepaths, fair haired—ego foods, what ever,” he frowned, taking the little key case out of his jacket’s inner pocket and unlocking the car.  “If it makes you feel any better at all, I’m really, really mad at myself right now.  But someone has to take point, and since I’m in charge, that makes it you.  Get in the damned car.”

                Schuldig hesitated, wavering between telling him to go to hell and start walking, or putting up with this shit the best he could.  Brad always let him walk out.  It always hurt and he always came creeping back, pretending that nothing had really happened after all, and picked up where he left off, hoping that Brad wouldn’t slam the door in his face.  And this time, he might just.  After all, there was ‘fair haired ego food’ on the menu at home.  His mouth twitched.  He got in the car.  “What the hell kind of description is that, fair haired ego food?”

                “Just shut up, Schuldig,” Brad stated and started the car. 

 

 

                Yuuji was dining on ordered in chinese food at the small table.  Nagi was beating the crap out of something hideous on the TV screen via a control box. 

                “He’s stable,” Nagi said.  “Before you start screaming, Schuldig, I got into your nicotine patches.  He was threatening to spontaneously combust.”

                “You’re not supposed to use three at a time!” Schuldig realized, looking at the man’s bare arms where he’d pushed up the sleeves as far as they would go.

                “Hey, what ever works,” Yuuji said, stuffing more noodles into his mouth. 

                Brad walked over and picked up a carton and looked into it.  Empty.  He set it down. “I don’t suppose there’s any more?”

                “Nope,” Yuuji said.  “You want some, order it.”

                Brad counted the empty bottles.  “And all my beer.”

                “I’m planning on wrecking your car, and draining your bank accounts, too.”

                “You wouldn’t dare,” Brad stated.

                Yuuji looked up at him.  “I’m in a bad mood, Brad.  Don’t mess with me.”

                Schuldig wondered how that was going to go over.  He watched, waiting to see Brad shoot the guy or something. 

                Brad went to the phone on the wall, hit the autodial number for the chinese place, ordered more food and slapped the reciever down on the hook.  “So other than that, how do you feel?”

                “Lots and lots of people need to die,”  Yuuji picked up another container and fished around in it with his chopsticks for the last garlic prawn. 

                “The report’s on your desk,” Nagi said, still involved in his game. 

                “Is there a specific list, or are you just planning general mayhem?” Brad asked, finding one beer left in the vegetable bin where someone else had hid it.  He unscrewed the cap and had a long swig of it. 

                “I haven’t gotten that far yet, but I’ll let you know,” Yuuji gave up and dropped the sticks in an empty carton.  He took a good look at Schuldig.  “You’re pretty.  That, and you’ve got a higher level, more useful talent.  And we all know what that means to Braddy-boy here,” he indicated Brad with his almost empty beer, then had a swig and set the bottle down.  “Put me back,” he said, not looking up.  He grabbed a napkin and wiped off his hands on it.  “What ever it takes, just put me back in the garbage where you found me.  Kudoh Yohji, all around loser.”

                “I thought you said he was stable,” Brad looked at Nagi who was basically ignoring them as he racked up points. 

                “I said stable. I didn’t say well grounded, optimistic and singing ‘My Father Was A Happy Wanderer’.”

                “Drunk and depressed,” was Schuldig’s diagnosis.  “The over dose of nicotine isn’t helping, either.”  He caught Yuuji’s arm and ripped two of the things off. 

                “Get your hands off me!” Yuuji ordered, but the hands were already off. 

                “Where’s Farfarello?” Brad asked.

                “You know, it’s insane, but they actually have Jehovah’s Witnesses here in Tokyo,” Nagi said, throwing some body english into a kill on the screen.  “YES!” Another explosion blew digitally graphic body parts all over.  “They invited him to a meeting.”

                Brad bit his lower lip, licked both,  then inhaled through clenched teeth slowly and let it out slowly.  “Okay.  My life is complete.  You know what, you two fight it out,” he looked at Schuldig and then the unresponsive Yuuji.  “I’m going to take a shower and when I get out, there better be food on the counter.  Without blood splattered on it.”

                “Jerk!” Yuuji shot after him, picking up the almost empty beer bottle to drain it. 

                Schuldig opened the refridgerator and looked a the rather bare shelves.  “Ah well,” he took out a lone battered banana and shut the door, turning to lean on it while he peeled the fruit.  “So.  You were at the top of your game when this explosion happened?” he commented, biting the banana. 

                “Yeah,” Yuuji said. 

                “I did wonder why you were such a mix of competent and massive fail the few times we’ve tangled,” Schuldig rumaged in the refridgerator again and poured himself a glass of milk. 

                “You know what he’s doing, don’t you?” Yuuji looked up at him.

                “Of course.  He’s seeing which one of us is angry, jealous or stupid enough to try to outwit the other.  And the one who wins is going to get the massive glacier of pissed off for the rest of his then shortened life.”

                “Well, maybe you have a little more insight to his thinking than I do, seeing that you are a telepath,” Yuuji said sarcastically.

                “Do you want to fight?” Schuldig finished the banana and threw the peel in the bin.

                “I’m considering it,” Yuuji said.  “Just to make your life a living hell.”

                “So you do realize I’ll win,” Schuldig said calmly, not meaning it as anything more than a statement of fact.

                “In a fair fight, no,” Yuuji said.  “But telepaths can’t help cheating.”

                “Like sneaking up behind someone and putting a wire around their neck when they are distracted is fighting fair.”

                “Kritiker doesn’t fight fair.  But then again, neither does Esset.”

                Schuldig weighed what he knew, against what he just wanted to do.  His hand still hurt where he’d hit the metal wall of the elevator.  He knew what Brad wanted.  He knew what he wanted and most likely was  not going to get.  “What do you want?”

                Yuuji was holding his head again, leaning over the table, a picture of morose.  “I don’t even know any more.  God, I was stupid.  Such a good little soldier.  Such a good little puppet.  I’m going to kill that doctor.  He’s first on my list.”

                Schuldig sat down across from him and looked at him.  “No, I mean, what do you really want?”

                Yuuji looked at him with eyes that looked like they’d seen hell first hand and were never going to trust anyone ever again.  “What’s in it for you?”

                Now there was a concept Schuldig, normally a very selfish person on his own, even without the bad influence of Brad Crawford, had not considered.  The advantages that might be available here.

                Two things to try.  Think about what he was going to do before he did it.  And what was in it for him if things did go Brad’s way? 

                “Not being crushed by the glacier.” Schuldig said, making up his mind.  “No matter what we do, he’s going to see it before we even settle it in our minds.  I’ve taken the sheilding off his talent.  This is against orders.  If they find out, they’ll freak all over us, maybe even decide that we are a liability beyond discipline.  Which again brings me back to what happened to you?  How did you get away alive?  Nobody gets away.  Unless—they wanted you to?”

                “I’ll make coffee,” Nagi said brightly, turning up somehow right there at the table, they’d both been so intent on keeping an eye on each other. 

                “Do that,” Schuldig said.  “We’re going to have to go get Farfarello anyway.”

                Yuuji had a good long look at him, obviously weighing things in his own mind.  “I want Brad back,” he stated. 

                Schuldig frowned. 

                Yuuji wasn’t too happy either.

                That made two of them. 

                “How long did he wait after I was ‘dead’ before finding himself a shiney new fuck toy?” Yuuji hissed.

                “That doesn’t make me the homewrecking whore,” Schuldig said.  “You’re the one that turned up like a bad penny from the grave.”

                “Do you mind? Impressionable youth in the room,” Nagi warned.

                Yuuji threw up his hands.  “You’re right, I’m drunk.  I’m drunk, and I’m not sure who the hell I am right now.” He pushed his hair out of his face, looking at the mess on the table.  “Why are we even having this conversation?”

                Schuldig sighed.  Damn Brad.  “Because I’m a telepath.  Otherwise, I’d be packing my bags and saying fuck it all.  Which—I’m still thinking very much about doing anyway.  Except that it never does me any good!”

                Yuuji looked up at him.   

                “We have a deal then?” Schuldig stated.

                “Detant,” Yuuji offered a hand.

                Schuldig shook it, then remembered he had punched a wall with the same hand earlier, and stifled the wince. 

“Did I just miss something?” Nagi pushed the button on the machine and turned to look at them, glaring away at each other like a couple of cats in an alley. 

“It’s out of our hands, then.  He can do as he damned well pleases,” Yuuji said, getting up to clean up the mess of his meal. 

                The door bell chimed.  Nagi went to pay the delivery guy. 

               

 

                Brad found the silence unusually ominous when he sat down to his plate of food.  He’d deliberately toned down his talent after leaving them to it, to avoid the drama, and now when he checked, he didn’t see any of the expected explosions or even fireworks in the near future.  He was--slightly disappointed.

                Schuldig had gotten half way through a plate of mushroom chicken and fried rice and nothing had been broken.  Yuuji was slowly drinking a cup of fresh coffee and reading over some print outs. 

                “And what is that?” Brad asked him.

                “The kid gave me a breakdown of the reports you’ve been passing back and forth with HQ.” Yuuji said. 

                “Nagi—,” Brad warned.

                “Either you trust me, or you don’t,” Yuuji informed him. 

                Brad frowned.  Damn his talent.

                “Why did they send you in so early if the convergence isn’t for another 18 months?”

                “They want the same political set up they had the first time around.  Isolationist policies, dis-enfranchised populace, inflation, building panic, a growing sense of us-against-them.  You know how they are.  Clinging to the same old patterns, ignoring how everything has changed.  They forget they’re no longer dealing with isolated hoards of peasants.”

                “Well, not on this side of the world,” Yuuji allowed. 

                “Oh please, even a cave dwelling afghani warlord wants his viagra and ipod these days; he could care less about the rest of the tribe’s wants and needs.  No one has a sense of community any more.  People just aren’t impressed with promises of a better world where everyone’s marching hand in hand into a perfect agrarian future. The world is a mess, and it functions because it is a mess.”

                “You and that guy in Jurassic Park,” Yuuji muttered. 

                “And he was right, too,” Brad stated. 

                “I’m lost,” Schuldig said, stabbing a piece of stir fried brocoli with a chopstick. 

                “Stop killing your food,” Brad said.

                “It’s already a vegetable, it’s a mercy killing,” he put the brocoli in his mouth and crunched it down.   

                “Well, this job’s not going to get done with you not giving a crap about it being done right,” Yuuji persisted.

                “I don’t want it done right,” Brad stated.  “I want them dead. Dead and gone.”          

            “How?” Yuuji asked.

                “It’s coming together, piece by piece.”

                “And then what?”

                “That’s the best part about it,” Brad smirked.  “They’ll be dead.”

                “You really have become bitter,” Yuuji said. 

                “Try having your talent suppressed for years only to realize what has been done to you when they’re about to take it all away.”

                “You’re losing me, too,” the blond looked at him.

                “If they succeed, there will only be one possible future; the one they want.  I like variety.”

                “You like chaos because it keeps you on your toes,” Yuuji told him.  “The majority of the human race just wants its nine to five, four day work week, 3 weeks vacation a year and a nice retirement.”

                “The dream of the masses does not concern me,” Brad said.

                Yuuji smiled at him. “You’re such an ass, Crawford.”

                “I’m just not a ‘people person’.”

                “Ah, come on.  Come to the dark side, we have party hats and ballons.”

                “Go fuck yourself.”

                “I am delicious, but not double jointed.  You want it done, do it yourself.”

                “A-hem,” Schuldig said. 

                Brad became extremely uncomfortable.  He’d been so engaged with their old reparte, he’d actually forgotten there was another issue to be delt with.  “Which brings us back to square one.”

                “Obviously,” Schuldig said. 

                Brad was silent for a long minute, focused on rounding up the last of his vegetables. 

                Schuldig had a swallow of water and set the tumbler down again. 

                Yuuji watched Brad over his coffee cup.

                Brad swallowed and cleared his throat.  “I know it’s selfish, and so forth, but it’s not the first time in history this has ever happened, and I am aware that you’re both making me the bad guy. I have no quarrel with that, that’s why I carry a gun, and I do enjoy my job, but I’m not chosing between you. That is my decission, take it or leave it.”    

                Schuldig laid a hand on his arm lightly and didn’t say or think anything for a change, just let his hand rest there, feeling the warmth seeping throught the knit shirt material. 

             Yuuji pulled a half frown and sipped his cooling coffee.  “That’s pretty god damned egotistical of you.”

                “Well, I’m not going to let you two tear me in half, and I’m not going to let the past destroy my plans for the future.”  He finally looked at Yuuji.  “We had plans, too, remember?  What do you think made me bitter?  If you want to walk away, it can’t possibly hurt any more, I’ve already gone numb.  But if you take what you’ve learned here and try to buy your status back with Esset with it, I’ll have to stop you.”

                Yuuji got up and leaned over to to put a hand on his shoulder and his lips to his cheek.  “I’m going to bed,” he said softly in Brad’s ear.  “Why don’t you bring the sex toy.”

                Brad went red faced, stunned, as Yuuji rinsed out his cup and put it in the sink, grabbed the print outs and headed for the bedroom.

                “Shouldn’t we—you know, go get Farfarello?  Or something?” Nagi reminded him.

                “He’s a big boy, he knows the way home,” Brad said.  “Don’t you have school tomorrow?  Go to bed.”

                Schuldig got up to rinse off his own plates and tidy up. 

                Nagi made himself scarce.

                Brad got up and caught Schuldig from behind and held him. 

                Schuldig froze.

                Brad nuzzled through his hair and kissed him on the back of the neck. 

                Schuldig leaned against him, wanting more. 

                “Do this for me,” Brad murmured against his throat.

                “Let me see,” Schuldig half turned to look at him.

                Brad let down his guard a little and let the telepath into his mind, showing him the premonition of what could happen if he let it.

                “Greedy man,” Schuldig commented. 

                 Brad smiled, already aware of how much fun he was going to have.  “Yes, or no?”

               Schuldig squirmed, turning fully in his arms to kiss him.  “Anything for you, and the shitty thing is that you knew it,” he half frowned up at him.  There was a predatory look in Brad’s eyes he knew all too well.  The one that ment weak knees and another day of coffee and longing for sleep.  “I’ll try to bring him up to speed, but he’s never going to be as good as me.” 

                “I’ll be the judge of that,” Brad smiled evilly, and kissed him. 

 

Two Weeks Later

 

                Fujimiya watched Kudoh carefully.  Something wasn’t quite right.  It wasn’t anything he could put his finger on.  Manx had debriefed them about the whole Schwarz thing with the mind control, but he still felt that something had shifted in the atmosphere of the Koneko. 

                Before, there had been a brittleness to Kudoh.  When he wasn’t carefully faking it, the façade slipped and he could be sharp, the stress would show.  Now he was more fluid, more—wary. 

                “You don’t smoke any more,” Aya said.

                “Hmm? No, I quit,” Yohji was fighting with a flower arrangment.  It wasn’t going to win, but it wasn’t giving up easily. 

                “Why?”

                “Self medicating depression.  Anti-depressants, no need to smoke,” he wired the stem of an iris so that it would stay put where he wanted it and stuck it into the holder. 

                The shop phone rang.  Yohji was closer and grabbed it.  “Koneko no sume I,” he purred.  “Kudoh Yohji speaking.  How can I make your dreams come true?  Floral, that is.”

                Aya bit his toungue, trying not to laugh at him or admonish him for being so—irritating. 

                “Two dozen roses?”  Yohji wrote on the order pad.  “And—ah, well, maybe we should carry that.  What’s the delivery address?” he wrote it down.  “Yes, I know it.  There’s a store on the way, I can pick some up for an extra fee.  Sure, why not?  45 minutes or so.  Yes.  Thank you for patronizing Koneko no Sume I.” He hung up and tore the order off the pad.

                “Big spender?” Aya asked.

                “I’m off to The Passion love motel with two dozen red roses and a bottle of massage oil.  What do you think?” Yohji tweaked the end of Aya’s nose, making him protest and back off like a water splattered cat. 

                “But what about this arrangment?” Aya indicated the one Yohji’d been working on. 

                “This guy said he’d pay double, you finish it,” Yohji grabbed his keys out of the drawer behind the counter. 

 

 

                “You pick the worst places,” Yuuji said, tossing the flowers on a low table and a flash drive on the bed where Brad sat half on, half off the edge.  He had a lap top open on a newspaper to prevent the coverlet from interfering with the cooling vents. 

                “This happens to be a very nice place,” Schuldig said, handing him a glass of champaign.  “See? Not-so-cheap booze.”

                Yuuji sipped it and made a face.  “Cheap enough.”

                Schuldig smiled and sat on the other side of the bed.  “Well, at least it’s clean.”

                “Must be a theme.  The champaign tastes like it was made in a bath tub.  Hurry up and transfer that data,” Yuuji stripped of his t-shirt. 

                “Or what?  Your little magenta haired friend will come looking for you?” Brad said, switching the files on the flash drive. 

                “Oh, I don’t know, Brad, he’s got the whole revenge thing pretty bad for you.  I think it’s something else he wants to poke you with, not the sword.  Why am I the only one getting naked here?”

                Brad closed the laptop down and got up to put it back in the case on the chair with his jacket draped over the back.  “Because you’re the over sexed one here?” he offered.

                Yuuji slipped his arms around him and kissed him on the cheek.  “And who’s fault is that?” he breathed on Brad’s lips.

                “Touche,” Schuldig started unbuttoning his own shirt. 

                “Before you take those off,” Brad tucked the flash drive in to the front pocket of Yuuji’s oh-so-tight jeans.  “Make sure this gets into the computer by tonight.  It will give Tsukiyono direct access to Takatori Masafumi’s files on the genetic experiments—-Mmmf.”

                 Yuuji finished kissing him and then grabbed him by the tie.  “Enough work, more play.”

Schuldig was rummaging in the basket of complementary lube packets.  “Look what I found, rose flavored.” He held two up pink ones with a grin. 

“And not stale,” Brad checked the timeline.  “Remind me to compliment management.  Mind the seams,” he warned as Yuuji pulled the shirt of him a little too violently.  He caught him by the wrists and held him off.  “I have an idea, why don’t you go back to taking your own clothes off and let me undress myself.”

 “I’m not doing that screw Schu while you watch thing again,” Yuuji warned, unbuttoning his pants and heading for the bed.

“Who said I was going to just watch?” Brad smiled.

Schuldig stood up and put his arms around Yuuji.  “I’m surrounded by perverts.”

“Why don’t we ditch this cold fish and go somewhere where there’s beer,” Yuuji kissed him, feeling all warm and friendly. 

“Hey, I’m paying the bills,” Brad warned. 

“Which reminds me, I told Fujimiya you’d pay double,” he worked on stripping Schuldig down.  “That’s 26,000 yen for the roses.  Ouch, that’s new,” he touched a bruise on Schuldig’s shoulder, then impulsively kissed it.

“It’s nothing,” Schuldig smiled, tugging his jeans and briefs down off his hips.  “What do you put these on with, silicone powder or something?”

“A girl’s got to protect her virtue,” Yuuji joked, then looked over his shoulder. “What’s taking so long?”

Brad was mauling the roses, pulling the heads of them in handfuls of petals.  “I paid for them, I’ll do what please with them.”

Schuldig did that snicker/giggle thing of his. 

“Shut up, Schuldig,” Brad warned and dumped the petals across the bed spread. 

“He’s still bitter,” Yuuji whispered loud enough to make it clear he wanted to be heard.

“Very,” Schuldig said.  “Show time.”

Yuuji grabbed him up and dumped him on the bed, pinning him there with a knee between his thighs and kissing him on the neck and shoulders. 

Brad pelted Yuuji on the flank with the last two rose heads, which exploaded on impact, raining petals. The scent filled the room now.  “You had to bring the most expensive ones, didn’t you?”

“Cheap skate,” Yuuji shucked his pants off his ankles and sat on the side of the bed to pull Brad’s hips to him so he could undo his belt.  “I thought you said you were going to undress yourself.”

Brad bent down to kiss him on the mouth. “I thought you said I couldn’t even fake romance, and here I am giving you a bed of roses.”

“He just wants time to fold his slacks,” Schuldig accused, locating a packet of lube by feeling on the bed side table without looking. 

“Linen wrinkles, so sue me,” Brad countered. 

Yuuji found an unbruised petal and held it to Schuldig’s lips.  “Hold that.  I don’t want a cut or a line in it when I’m done, or you don't get a second helping.” He tore open the pack of lube with his teeth.

Schuldig held the petal in his lips, daring him with teasing eyes, and turned over again.

“Kinky,” Brad said, neatly folding his slacks as predicted. “And almost worth the 23,000.  And how goes the flower business, by the way?”

“Famous last words?  They don’t suspect a thing,” Yuuji said, drizzling the oil slowly down Schuldig’s butt crack. 

“Try to keep it that way,” Brad caught him up from behind and pulled him close to bite him on the neck and shoulder.  “How long have we got?”

“About thirty minutes,” Yuuji said, looking at the lethal watch on his wrist.

“Give me that oil,” he took the other packet from Yuuji’s hand.  “I don’t know how much longer we’ll be able to keep making Tsukiyono think he’s safebreaking systems, but it certainly adds some fun to the game.”

“Can we not talk about business while you’ve got your fingers there?” Yuuji bit his lower lip. 

Brad laughed softly in his ear.  “What’s the matter, Sarazawa, out of the habit of multitasking?”

/Somebody fuck me, or I’m joining those two yakuza in the next room,/ Schuldig complained. 

 

 

End


	10. Broken Strings Out Take: The Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of edited out that didn't fit in properly, but was too sweet to waste. Schuldig has a plan. He's worked it out quite carefully.

## The Plan

 

 

“…and that is the plan.” Schuldig said, turning to face his audience of three seated on the sofa in the hotel suite.

There was a lot of blinking going on, except for Brad, who was stuffed in the corner of the sofa with his hand over his mouth and a look on his face that said the whole thing was insane.  But Schuldig was used to that look, so he just ignored it.  “Are there questions?”

                “I’m confused—who is ‘Bombay’ again?” Nagi asked.

                “Tsukiyono Omi,” Schu used the pointer to hit the presentation board, where a tree chart was taped up of photographs taken on surveillance.

                “Why is he named after a place when the others are named after cats?”

                “Because there is a Bombay cat breed,” Schuldig said.

                “But that’s not right.  It should be named Mumbai, not Bombay, it’s not politically correct to say Bombay any more.”

                “Wouldn’t he be more of a Scottish Fold, with that round face?” Farf asked.

                “I’m not the one in charge of naming them after cats,” Schuldig said very softly. 

                “No, wait, who is Mamoru Takatori then?” Nagi shifted to sit on the edge of the sofa.  “Are you sure you didn’t get this all mixed up?”  
                “I’m telling you, Mamoru Takatori IS Omi Tsukiyono.  He was kidnapped and Takatori Reiji refused to pay his ransom because he found out that his wife had fucked around with his brother before he forced her to marry him.”

                “That’s disgusting,” Farf said. 

                “So why is he called Omi Tsukiyono?” Nagi asked, frowning.

                “Because someone decided to name him that when he was rescued from the kidnappers instead of being killed when his old man wouldn’t pay up!” Schuldig was about to tear his hair out. “Tsukiyono was raised by people connected with Kritiker…”

                “Why?” Nagi said, truly puzzled.

                “Because someone in there is his real father,” Schuldig clenched his fists in an effort of self control.

                Brad tipped his head a little the other way and kept looking at the chart.

                “So we’ve got Reiji, Shuuichi, Masafumi, Hirofumi and Mamoru AKA Omi Takatori?” Farf counted them off on his fingers.  “And Ouka.  What the hell is that family using for a baby name book?”

                “Never mind that, they’re all nuts!” Nagi said.  “Can we order pizza?  My stomach is growling.”

                “Save it for the buffet at the party,” Brad said, shifting so that he could cross a leg over his other knee, and pointed at the chart.  “You got all this from Balinese’s head?”

                “No, I got it from various heads,” Schuldig said.  “Tsukiyono doesn’t know who he really is.  I was planning on telling him. Just as soon as he gets a little more attached to Ouka.” He grinned evilly.

                “And Ouka is his sister.” Nagi stated.

                “No, she’s his cousin, but who’s counting,” Schuldig sniffed. “With that family, especially, sister, cousin, they might as well all be from Virginia.”

                “Who’s Virginia?” Farf asked.

                Schuldig glared at him.

                Farf maintained complete innocence in a way only a Catholic boy could.  Years of practice while a nun stood by with a ruler.

                “Who kidnapped Mamoru?” Brad mused aloud.

                “I’m guessing his own father to make a point,” Schuldig said.  “Except that when our obnoxious would-be boss didn’t pay the ransom, the kid’s mother killed herself.”

                “Omi is 17,” Nagi said.  “Ouka is 15.  How old was Omi when he was kidnapped?”

                “Around 4,” Schuldig was grateful for a sane question from the brat at last.

                “Oh, well, there you go,” Nagi settled back again and looked the other way.

                “He was cheating on the wife when he found out Tsukiyono wasn’t his,” Farf exclaimed, getting a point for a clue in the game this was turning out to be.  “That bastard!”

                “How much of this does Balinese know?” Brad asked.

                “I don’t know,” Schuldig shrugged.

                “Well then what good does killing Tsukiyono do?” Farf asked.  “We should kill Ouka, she’s the one that would make the bigger point.”

                Schuldig considered this.  “But I want to kill Tsukiyono,” he pouted a little.

                “Why?” Farf asked.

                “Because he drives me nuts, his brain is like a—a—I can’t describe it, it’s just got to stop.  I want a stop put to it.”  He wrung the pointer in his hands. 

                Nagi’s stomach gurgled.  “Lets kill them all,” he said.

                “Exactly my point!” Schuldig exclaimed.  “Can we Brad, please? Please, please?”

                “No,” Brad said.  “Nagi get a slice of bread.”

                “What is this, the barbecue at Twelve Oaks?” he grumbled, getting up to go get a slice of bread, as instructed.  Maybe some other stuff would fall onto it accidentally, like left over chicken….”

                “Bread, Nagi,” Brad said, seeing that one coming. 

                “Cheapskate,” Nagi muttered.

                Brad threw a sofa cushion at the back of his head.

                Nagi deflected it at the last second.  “Cheap shot!”

                Brad frowned and looked at Schuldig again.  “So, now that you’ve gone through all this very professional presentation, what exactly is the point?”

                Schuldig set the pointer down on the tray of the board.  “My point is, they’re all nuts.  It doesn’t matter what order we kill them in as long as we kill them all.”

                “I get that,” Brad was irritated.  “But what is the point of this when we already have a directive and it can’t be changed just so that you can go on a killing spree.”

                “You never let me do anything!” Schuldig came very close to whining.  “I laid it all out, I explained everything, I made very good reasoning, how often have you told me I make no sense, this made sense, why can’t I kill them all!”

                Brad sighed and stood up somewhat tiredly. “Because.”

                Schuldig grabbed the pointer and snapped it over his knee, then snapped the piece still in his hand over his knee again and threw it at the board.

                Brad grabbed him by a lock of hair in passing and gave it a tug.  “I need a shower.  Come scrub my back.”

                “Okay,” Schuldig completely forgot he was pissed off. 

                “If you play your cards right, I’ll drop the soap,” Brad let the hair slip out of his fingers as he walked.

                “I’ll drop it myself,” Schuldig grinned, following him.


End file.
